


The Healing Hand

by Mellaril (kuroimyuutsu)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Age, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Second Age, Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuroimyuutsu/pseuds/Mellaril
Summary: Fingon has just rescued Maedhros from his torment on Thangorodrim, but a rift remains between the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. To mend the divide will take all of the wisdom and kindness of the children of Fingolfin. Though some hurts may not be possible to heal at all, Fingon is determined to try. In the sanctuary of the House of Healing deep in the mountains, ancient love and buried sorrows come to light. Four hundred years in the future, the fate of Arda rests on the strength of their friendship.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Wake Up, Maitimo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArlenianChronicles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArlenianChronicles/gifts).



> Hello all! This is my first time posting a fic in a few years, which is really hard to believe... It's been really lovely working with ArlenianChronicles on this short story as part of the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang (2020). Thanks to some much-needed encouragement on my collaborator's part, some of you may find this somewhat less depressing than my other writings. Thank you for stopping by, and I hope you enjoy the story. Kudos and comments are always much appreciated.

Y.S. 5

A lone candle burned in the center of the tent, washing everything in pale yellow: the softly undulating cloth walls, Fingon’s pale hands, the sheets thrown over the cot before him, and the man that lay in it. Dark still blanketed the camp, but the birds had now begun to sing.

The man in the cot shivered, eyes closed, and gave a slight moan. With his spider-like left hand, he clutched blindly at his right arm– an arm that ended abruptly at the wrist, wrapped tightly in bandages. Replaced not an hour ago, they were already crimson with fresh blood. 

“It’s all right, Maedhros,” said Fingon, “you’re safe.”

Maedhros did not seem to hear him. He tossed weakly in his cot, groaning. 

Fingon crossed over and sat on the ground next to the cot. He placed his hand on Maedhros’s hollowed cheek. It was feverish and sweaty. 

“Wake up, _Maitimo_ , Beautiful One,” he whispered, “I know you can hear me.”

But Maedhros only coughed and lay still again as one dead. 

Fingon sighed to himself and turned his attention to the bloodied dressings. He peeled away the carefully wrapped bandages, layer by layer until he was looking at the naked stump beneath. Even after the gaping edges of the wound had been stitched together with a fishing line, and the frayed arteries had been found and choked, blood still seeped from the corners, spreading along the sheets, dripping on the ground. How did Maedhros, already so wasted by his captivity, still have so much blood to lose? It frightened him.

When he started to wind the fresh bandages around, Maedhros winced in his unrestful slumber. Fingon’s heart skipped a beat, as though afflicted by an identical pang.

“Sorry about that, friend.”

He finished wrapping the wrist, a little more gently this time. Then he tucked the arm back down by Maedhros’s side.

Fingon took the metal pail by the tent opening and stepped outside. Dawn was just breaking over the camp. Not a sound yet but for the birds and the soft lapping of Lake Mithrim on the pebbled shore. But the lake water wouldn’t do; it had to come from a stream to ensure that it would be clean. Fingon wrapped his mantle around himself and made his way across the camp and into the woodland, following the sound of the softly gurgling water. Here and there he saw the glowing eyes of a rabbit or mouse that darted away as he walked passed. And once there was a heavier rustling in the leaves– a deer, perhaps. And at last, trickling over the jagged rocks was a small, pristine creek. Fingon knelt by its edge and dipped the pail into the water, so cold at this hour that it numbed his submerged fingers. He groused, enduring the sensation. 

Back in the tent, Fingon dipped a washcloth into the water and wrung it until it was just damp enough. Then he unlaced the top of his own tunic and held the rag against his chest, warming it with his body. Only then did he lift the sheets from Maedhros’s skeletal body and begin to clean it with the washcloth. He washed the face first, behind the ears and neck, and over the shorn head which made a russet horizon against the blank white pillow, suggesting the hair had once been brilliant red. He ran the washcloth over the collarbones, under the arms, across the hollow belly, over the jutting hips and down the long legs. Every time he wet the washcloth in the cold water he had collected, he warmed it again against his own body, patiently, ritualistically. 

He had to roll Maedhros onto one side to wash the back. This was the worst of it. The back and shoulders were covered in bruises and gashes, open and half-healed in places. He scrubbed at these, loosening the scabs where he could, so long as the sleeping Maedhros could tolerate it without groaning. 

The body of Maedhros was unrecognizable now, compared to what it had once been. Fingon remembered it from the days of his late boyhood, when he and his brother Turgon used to bathe with the Sons of Fëanor in the waterfalls outside Tirion. In his youth, his coloring had been like that of a fantastic, painted animal in the light of Laurelin: dark red hair, tanned skin, golden freckles glowing in the light of Laurelin. Over the years, in the bliss of Valinor, the chest had expanded, the limbs had lengthened and the body had become a thing of mythical beauty. But long years had passed since they had grown up in Tirion. Fingon would come to know the body as it was now: to know it with the flesh wasted away to reveal the shape of the bones beneath; with strange new scars, with a piece of it missing.

By the time he finished bathing Maedhros, the rest of the camp was stirring. From beyond the tent walls came the delicate clattering of pots for breakfast, the rustling of dressing and undressing, shouted greetings of morning. Fingon hastily tidied his things and retreated from the cot. The healer would be in soon, and would want to examine Maedhros unhindered. Perhaps today would be the day she identified some new sign – some finding or clue that Fingon’s friend might awaken soon, and speak to him.

Precisely on time, the healer drew back the tent curtains and ducked within. She was slight, her black hair close-cropped, and her eyes bright and inquiring. She reminded Fingon of a fox on the hunt.

“Good morning, Lord Fingon,” she said. Her tone was always pleasant, but also somehow cool and impassive. She was always so gentle and thorough with Maedhros, however, that Fingon didn’t mind.

“And to you, Atariel,” said Fingon. Apprehensively, he scanned her smooth face. A furrow in the brow, indicating worry, perhaps? Or a twitch of the mouth, indicating good tidings? 

But the healer, as always, seemed to be concentrating on something he couldn’t see, and her dark eyes held none of the answers Fingon sought. With a polite nod to Fingon, she stepped past him and to the cot where Maedhros lay. With deft, precise fingers, she pinched his pale left wrist and stood still, considering the pulse. Tapped briskly at each knee to elicit the reflexive twitch of his legs. Then with surprising tenderness, called softly to him: “Open your eyes, Maedhros.” 

No response. She firmly rubbed at a spot on the ridge of his eyebrow.

 _Wake up_ , Fingon mentally pleaded, _please wake up_.

In response to the discomfort from Atariel’s maneuver, Maedhros frowned and softly moaned. Again, Fingon looked eagerly at her face. This time, he saw something that looked like an uncertain, mild surprise. But she said nothing, and he was afraid to ask. 

She then turned her attention to the bandaged right hand. Already, spots of fresh blood were blooming through the white dressings. 

“Do you need to see the wound?” asked Fingon anxiously, “I changed the dressing a few hours ago. They had soaked through.”

The healer hesitated and glanced over Fingon’s work from hours before, obviously impressed. Then she replied, “No. There’s no need. I’ll return at noon to examine it.”

She gave Fingon a small smile. “You are an attentive nurse, Lord Fingon.”

Fingon smiled back. But at this simple statement of praise, an uneasy guilt rippled through him and he thought, _I did this. I created that wound, though I was trying to save his life. He will never fight with that hand again._

“Would you help me turn him, Lord Fingon? I’ll need to see the wounds on his back.”

“Of course.”

Fingon placed his hands on Maedhros’s shoulder and flank, and gently tipped him to his other side. The horrible landscape of scars, bruises and burns came again into view, but the healer did not blanch. She only looked again to Fingon.

“These wounds have been well cared for,” she said, “but there’s an ointment I’d like to use to accelerate the healing. Would you like me to show you how to apply it?”

“Yes. I would like that.”

And so she did. Afterward, the healer took her leave of Fingon. 

He was alone again with Maedhros. Maedhros, who would not awaken. 

He sat again beside the cot. Morning light was streaming into the tent now. A single brilliant ray fell on Maedhros’s chest so that the pale skin glowed white with the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Can you hear me, _Maitimo_?”

Fingon gently placed his fingers around Maedhros’s limp left hand. 

“I believe that you can. I miss you. And I wish you would wake up. You know, I’ve never wanted something so much before.”

He was interrupted by a chorus of male voices, coming closer toward the tent. Fingon could guess at once who that was.

“ _Please_ ,” he said aloud one last time. But Maedhros did not stir. Then the toe of man’s boot brushed aside the curtain and entered the tent, followed by the rest of Maedhros’s younger brother Curufin. 

Fingon stood. He had not spoken to the other sons of Fëanor, the younger brothers of Maedhros, since delivering Maedhros to their camp. Curufin looked so like his father that for an instant, it had seemed Fëanor’s own accusing stare ran over Fingon’s face like a flash of fire. And Fingon remembered suddenly the sight of the brothers, the boys with whom he’d grown up in Valinor, their armor blood-spattered and aglow in the flames, killing and robbing their allies over a perceived slight; the fair masts of the Teleri ships splintering into the blood-tinged foam. And later, the plume of smoke over the edge of the ice signaling they, too, had been betrayed. 

Had Maedhros thought of him then? Had he looked over the stern of his father’s stolen ship and thought of the days he and Fingon, in the youth they shared before the theft of the Silmarils, had climbed through the caves of Valinor by the lakes gleaming in the light of Telperion at full bloom? 

By now, the rest of Maedhros’s brothers had filed into the tent. Blond Celegorm, who would not meet Fingon’s eyes. Dark Caranthir, who had a birthmark like a red stain across his face. Twins Amrod and Amras, called the Ambarrussa by their mother, russet-haired like Maedhros. And finally, Maglor, second-eldest, whom Fingon remembered as having been soft-spoken and gentle. The tightness in his chest eased as Maglor entered and immediately brushed past his brothers, and put his arms on Fingon’s shoulders with only gratitude, warmth, and slight concern on his face. 

“Fingon,” said Maglor, “have you been here all night? You’ve not slept, have you?”

Fingon smiled and rubbed his eyes.

“A little. Here and there.”

And then Maglor embraced him, warm and mothering as he always had been, and even as Fingon returned the gesture, he thought, _they left us to die in Araman._ Still, he felt a rush of affection toward Maglor, and tried to forget his misgivings. After all, he had vowed to himself, to try mend the rift between their families. That was what he had set out to do in rescuing Maedhros from the face of Thangorodrim.

Maglor released Fingon and made his way over to Maedhros’s bedside. He knelt down next to his unconscious brother. The Ambarussa joined him, and then Celegorm, so that they formed a semicircle around the low cot. 

Curufin alone lingered, and with the backs of his brothers turned, he beckoned to Fingon to follow him outside the tent. Fingon did so uneasily. He had anticipated running into difficulty with Curufin, whose heart, as well as his face, was most like his father’s. Sure enough, as soon as the two were a short distance from the tent, Curufin turned on Fingon, his black eyes suspicious and accusing. 

“Why did you do it, son of Fingolfin?” he demanded, “Why rescue my brother?”

Fingon met his gaze as steadily as he could. 

“Maedhros and I were friends long ago,” he said, “as were you and I, Curufin. I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I wanted to make things right between us. Between all of us.”

Curufin’s look of suspicion, if anything, only deepened.

“I’m not an idiot, Fingon,” said Curufin, “I know your father didn’t cross the Helcaraxë to ‘make things right,’ as you say. What are you really after?”

Fingon’s heart hardened at Curufin’s accusation.

“I know you’re a clever man,” he replied. He was taller than Curufin, as he was compared to most Elves, “and so you must know that we did not cross the perilous Grinding Ice for any reason except, of course, that we had no choice.” 

Curufin took a step back, not out of contrition, but because he perceived Fingon’s explanation as an insult.

“Go back to your side of the lake, son of Fingolfin,” was his answer. And he turned on his heel and marched back toward Maedhros’s tent to join his brothers. 

Fingon glanced up at the morning sun. It would still be early by the time he reached his father’s side of the lake, if he sailed across now. Now, suddenly, his labors the previous night overcame him. His eyes ached. Perhaps he could take a nap and return in the afternoon. But– what if Maedhros were to awaken before then? What if, when his eyes finally opened, Fingon was not at his side? A pang of apprehension seized his heart at this possibility. He might be terrified, or in pain. And Fingon might not be there to comfort him.

 _There’s no use worrying about that now_ , thought Fingon, shaking his head, and started to make his way to the docks. He wasn’t welcome at the moment anyway. And he would need rest if he hoped to care for Maedhros again as he had the night before. 

The dock men stared pointedly at Fingon as he approached, and did not bother arising from their spots in the dappled shade. Fingon, unbothered, untied his little sailboat on his own. He coiled the rope and tossed it into the boat before giving it a firm kick, launching it into the lake. Then, with practiced timing, he hopped onto the bow, steadying the rudder in his left hand and taking the mainsheet in his right. The vessel was small but elegantly made, and the sail soon filled with a strong portside wind, which caught in his hair and sleeves. The surface of Lake Mithrim was alive, silver-gray tinted with pale gold. Fingon adjusted the rudder,, pointing the prow toward a cloven peak of the Ered Wethrin that he knew would bring him…

 _Home?_ He thought quizzically. The place they had left all those years ago– their old “home”– was closed to them for the foreseeable future. And there was no place for them to live except the great camp on the northern shore of Lake Mithrim. But it wasn’t _home_ , not exactly. Because home wasn’t a place, Fingon realized now. Home was…

Home was a feeling. Home was what you missed when you felt lost. Home was the ache in your heart when you left it behind. Or when it left you.

When Fingon returned in the evening, Maedhros was alone in his tent again. Fingon pinched his brow as he had seen Atariel do.

“Maedhros.”

No answer. 

He settled into his usual place at the head of the cot, and leaned his head against the main support of the tent. He was still tired. He closed his eyes. 

“Fingon?” 

Fingon opened his eyes again and looked around. It was dark. Slivers of starlight shone through the cracks in the tent. Could he still be dreaming?

 _“Fingon.”_

The same whispered voice, a little more urgently this time. Suddenly, Fingon started and leapt from his half-slumber. 

“Maedhros?” his heart pounded. His hands were trembling. But more sure than ever now, he called, “Maedhros!”

“Fingon… where are we? And… what’s happened to my hand?”

Maedhros’s long-unused voice sounded more confused than upset, but it was unmistakably that of his best friend.

“Fingon?” Again, the innocent confusion, “Fingon, why are you crying?”

Fingon brushed at the stream of tears on his face. He leaned over Maedhros’s cot, his hand trembling in joy.

“Because I’m happy to see you, Maedhros.”

“Oh.” Maedhros sounded more puzzled than ever, “I’m happy to see you too. And… and what happened to my hand?”


	2. A Hidden Light

It was daytime, judging by the orange color inside his eyelids, and Maedhros was awake. There were people speaking quietly, very near. Still half-asleep, he let the sounds of the conversation wash over him like music, and slowly began to distinguish the two voices: Fingon’s, and a woman’s. 

He knew her voice. She came in every day at dawn, gently steadied his shaved head and offered him bitter medicines. She dressed his wounds when Fingon wasn’t there.

“Atariel,” Fingon was saying, “have you always followed the host of Fëanor? If so, I do apologize. Your face is not known to me though I have heard rumors of your great abilities. I am glad for the care you’ve given Maedhros.”

Atariel’s reply was friendly, but, as always, impersonal.

“Thank you,” she said, “I’m glad to have adequately provided for your friend. It’s not surprising that you don’t know me. My people are the ones you call Grey Elves, and we dwelt in the mountains of Beleriand before the Noldor returned. My studies of the healing arts brought me to Fëanor’s army, where they had a need for me.”

There was a clink of silver from the little table as Atariel poured boiled water into a cup of medicine to make tea. 

“Your father’s camp is across the lake, isn’t it, Lord Fingon?” she asked Fingon, curious now in her turn.

“It is,” said Fingon, “Our families were very close once, but that bond was badly hurt. Perhaps too badly for me to mend.”

Quiet for a moment, except shuffling and rustling as certain items were put away.

“Will you tell me, Lord Fingon,” came Atariel’s voice again, “why the sons of Fëanor are so relentless in their pursuit of the jewels their father made? Why have they allowed such strife to come between your families in the name of the Silmarils?”

There was another pause. Maedhros wondered if he was meant to overhear this conversation. Many conjectured why the sons of Fëanor had bound their fates to the Silmarils, but none of the stories were happy ones. 

Which version of things did Fingon believe?

“The Silmarils are no mere jewels,” Fingon said at last, “although exactly _what_ they are, I’m not really sure. Physically they are as you have said: three brilliant gems, shining with the light of Laurelin and Telperion, the Trees of Light that were destroyed. But the crystals themselves are mere vessels, in a sense. The Silmarils are not gems, any more than you and I are husks of flesh and bone. They seem to grant their bearer incredible power. If Morgoth discovered how to harness their might, then the world would be destroyed in a day.”

“The brothers mean to use the power of the Silmarils, then?” asked Atariel, “and to keep that power out of the hands of Morgoth?”

“Yes and no,” said Fingon, “for there is more to the Silmarils than I have said. All who lay eyes upon them, fair or evil, fall under their spell, drawn to them like moths to a flame. Not even their creator, Fëanor, nor his sons were safe from their irresistible pull. After Morgoth stole the Silmarils, they all swore a terrible oath: to pursue to the end of the world Vala or Demon or Elf, or any creature great or small, good or evil, who should hold or take a Silmaril from them. They swore by Ilúvatar and named Manwë and Varda as witnesses, and called everlasting darkness upon themselves if the Oath could not be kept.”

Atariel shuddered. 

“So they will stop at nothing, then,” she said, “How can you hope to save them?”

Maedhros opened his eyes where he lay, fully awake now though the other two did not know it. His right arm had begun to throb, but he wanted to hear Fingon’s reply before asking for his medicine. 

“Fate is powerful, Atariel,” came his friend’s voice, “but so is memory. Maedhros will not forget our friendship from the days in Valinor. If we could only be friends again– if I could make Maedhros and his brothers remember who they once were– then, perhaps, they’ll find a way to save themselves.”

After some time, Fingon excused himself and left the tent, still apparently unaware Maedhros had awakened. Atariel finished stirring the medicinal tea. She then took the cup and turned around to bring it over to Maedhros. When she realized his eyes were open, she raised her eyebrows. 

“How long have you been awake?” she asked.

“A little while,” said Maedhros. Slowly, painfully, he braced his left hand against the beams of the cot and tried to push himself upright. Instinctively, he moved his right arm to steady himself. The stump hit the beam on the other side. He cried out in pain.

Atariel ran to his side as he cursed. She stroked his shoulder as he lay rigid in the cot, breathing in sharp gasps as he waited for the pain to subside. 

“You think we’re monsters now, don’t you? Now that you know why we swore the Oath?” 

He glared at her, still panting.

“I think you should take your medicine,” replied Atariel inscrutably.

He obeyed her without further comment, grimacing as he swallowed the bitter liquid. 

By the time Fingon was finished docking his boat at the other side of the lake, his brother and sister were already waiting for him on the shore. He greeted his sister first.

“Good morning, Aredhel.”

Aredhel mock-curtsied at him with a toss of her long, dark hair. “Morning? It’s past noon. Try and keep abreast of the world beyond Maedhros, brother.”

“It’s not just about Maedhros,” said Fingon’s brother Turgon, in the impatient voice he often reserved for their younger sister, “It’s about all his brothers as well. How are they?”

Fingon explained how the morning had gone: Maglor’s gentleness, Curufin’s mistrust, and Celegorm’s silence, Caranthir’s sulking indifference. At the sound of Celegorm’s name, Aredhel’s eyes flashed. 

“That lunkhead. Always smirking as though he doesn’t _deign_ to speak with you.”

Turgon affectionately clapped his sister’s shoulder. 

“Settle down about your boyfriend,” he snickered, “Fingon has more important things to worry about. Like re-forging our alliance with the House of Fëanor.”

“He’s our _cousin_ , you–” Aredhel began furiously, but Fingon shook his head.

“What I want isn’t an alliance,” said Fingon, “We’re one family, Turgon. We never should have been anything else.”

At these words, Turgon turned away darkly and said nothing more. He started to walk back toward the camp ahead of them, with just a brief glance over his shoulder to ensure Aredhel and Fingon were following.

Aredhel looked accusingly at Fingon. 

“What is it?” he asked her, but of course, he already knew. Aredhel ran to catch up with Turgon, leaving Fingon to trail them both. 

Fingon frowned to himself. He knew his siblings harbored thorny feelings about reconciling with the House of Fëanor. Yet they knew as well as he that they could not face the enemy alone. 

And Fingon knew that the brothers had wounded them with their deeds. They’d all lost people close to them as they crossed the Helcaraxë.

 _You didn’t lose your wife_ , a harsh voice within him pointed out, _you didn’t lose the mother of your child. Not like Turgon did._

“Uncle!” 

A child’s shout distracted him. A small, green-clad shape was hurtling down the hillside toward him. Fingon beamed and crouched down, outstretching his arms. 

“Idril!” he cried happily, as his niece ran right past her own father, Turgon, and leapt into his embrace. He swooped her up as she shrieked in celebration, “My darling, I’ve missed you most of all.”

Idril wrapped her arm tightly around Fingon’s neck. She then promptly placed her other fist in her mouth.

It was an odd sight to see. 

Idril was young, but far from the teething age when most children would have stopped chewing on their hands. Fingon’s niece had resumed the habit, in fact, almost immediately after her mother had died. 

He held her tight as they made their way up the hill. He noticed Turgon’s watchful eye now turned toward his daughter. Fingon loved Idril more than he ever thought possible. He would sooner dive into the icy waters of the Helcaraxë himself than allow harm to fall on her little silver head. 

Once more, the shades of doubt flickered across his heart. It was Fëanor’s ruthlessness that had left Idril motherless. And all of his sons had abetted him. Was he wrong to try and reconcile with them now? 

_More hatred among our families won’t bring Elenwë back_ , he thought firmly to himself. But the doubt remained. 

Once inside the tent, Fingon kissed the top of Idril’s head and released her. Immediately, she ran outside to investigate the throng of ducklings they’d passed by on their way up the hill.

“Don’t go too far away, Idril!” Turgon yelled after her, and Idril’s promise of “I won’t!” came back faintly, indicating she was already halfway back to the lake. 

Aredhel and Turgon now directed the valets in setting the simple wooden table in the middle of the tent, and bringing around cutlery. Stools made of lightly polished tree stumps were arranged around the interior. Fingon was about to join, when a tall man in long blue surcoat ducked inconspicuously into the tent. 

This was Fingolfin, their father. He had a tall, straight nose and calm, blue eyes. When Fingon’s siblings saw him, they started to come over, but he waved them away with one hand, bidding them to carry on and not mind him. 

“ _Ada_ ,” said Fingon, bowing. 

Fingolfin inclined his own head in response. 

“Hello, Fingon. You had just returned from the Fëanorian camp?”

“Yes, _Ada_. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s of no consequence.”

Then, after a subtle glance over at Aredhel and Turgon to ensure they were still preoccupied with preparations for lunch, he said, “And how has it been with Maedhros and his brothers?”

Fingon sighed. 

“Maedhros is a bit better now, I think. But I’m afraid I’ve not made it very far with the others. To be honest, I’ve started to have doubts whether I should keep on trying.”

Fingolfin nodded slowly, considering this. He sat down on one of the polished stumps, and gestured for Fingon to take the seat next to him.

“Tell me more of this, my son. Why have you had these doubts?”

Fingon sat down obediently next to his father. 

“Because,” he said, “I’m trying to do what you did, _Ada_. When you tried to make your peace with Fëanor. You told us that the Elves were good at heart in spite of everything. And you said that Fëanor and his sons would return to the light, and we had to help them find the way.”

Fingolfin closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Yes, Fingon. That is what I said.”

“Well,” said Fingon, frustrated, “they’ve gone pretty far from the light this time, _Ada_. We all saw them; we were there. They killed innocent people. They betrayed us. And Elenwë–”

Fingolfin put up a hand to stop him. 

Pain flashed across his face as he thought of Turgon’s loss, as though he felt his second son’s grief as his own.

“I was wrong about Fëanor,” said Fingolfin grimly. 

Fingon looked at him in dismay. 

“I had faith in him in spite of everything,” he continued, “I thought when the time was right he would prove true to us, to his own kindred. But he betrayed that faith time and time again. He was driven mad by his own genius, and twisted by Morgoth’s lies.”

“ _Ada_?”

“But Fëanor’s people are not Fëanor,” said Fingolfin, “and nor are his sons. There may be hope left, and good deeds left to them still. To some of them, at least. Maedhros is to be High King of the Noldor now. Perhaps, if he chooses, he may yet better this world.”

Fingon shook his head. 

“The Oath they took,” he said, “can it be undone?”

“No, Fingon. It will bind them for the rest of their lives.”

“ _Ai, Manwë_ ,” he swore, “how am I to save them, then? What a damned mess they’re in.”

Fingolfin calmly smoothed his surcoat over his knees. 

“Perhaps it is,” he said, “but what does that change? Fingon, you still must believe one thing, and believe it beyond all hope.”

Fingon searched his father’s clear, blue eyes. 

“What is it, _Ada_?”

Fingolfin reached over and smoothed back a strand of Fingon’s hair. His smile was tinged faintly with hope as he answered.

“That the world will correct itself, and that all things will be as they should. It may not be in my lifetime, or even in yours. But our calling is not, I don’t think, to put ourselves above others, or to separate the villains from the noble. Rather, we must do what we can to protect all that is still fair. What might I have done, imbibed with such a great and terrible spirit as Fëanor’s, and to have suffered such grievous ills, so young? Who would you be, Fingon, if you had been Fëanor’s son, and not mine?”

Fingon shuddered.

“I’m glad I’m your son, _Ada_. That I know for sure.”

“As am I. I think it is a noble thing you are doing, trying to parley with Maedhros’s brothers. But be careful. Their moods and their spirits are all different, and often unpredictable. Not all of them will come to your call.”

“Yes, _Ada_ ,” Fingon yawned, “Pardon me. I may take a nap, and cross the lake again in the evening.”

“ _After_ lunch,” said Fingolfin firmly, “I can’t have you skipping meals again.”

Dusk fell as Fingon returned to the Fëanorian camp. His conversation with Fingolfin occupied his thoughts. 

The entire world was once fair. There once was beauty as far as the eye could see– trees bursting with brilliant light. Music where there now was silence. There was a time before war, a time before bloodshed and hurt. A time that those born after him would never know. It seemed to Fingon that nothing ever became simpler as time went on. 

A drop of blood in a cup of pure water would unfurl, and spread in every direction and the water would be tainted. There was no gathering up of what was spilled, no reappearance of swirling scarlet tendrils pulling inward to join again in a single bead. 

But was it possible a new kind of beauty could shine in a world that had been so marred? A hidden light that could only be seen, perhaps, when other lights went out….

A man’s shoulder appeared in front of him out of nowhere collided with his own, jarring him from his thoughts.

“Look where you’re going, son of Fingolfin,” snapped Curufin, whose eyes now gleamed mistrustful up at Fingon in the fading light. 

Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, and the twin forms of the Ambarussa now gathered around.

When Fingon took a step backward, Curufin advanced.

“Have you come to whisper your lies into my brother’s ear again?” he demanded, “Come to claim him for your own, that he’d forsake his own family and be loyal to your father?”

“Or,” sneered a second voice from behind Curufin, “have you returned to flirt with the healer again? The freakish woman who cuts her hair like a little boy’s?”

Celegorm. So he had decided to speak to Fingon, after all. Fingon glanced quickly at the faces of the others. Maglor hung back from his brothers, anxious and conflicted. The Ambarussa exchanged glances, and then moved in to flank Caranthir and Curufin. Red-faced Caranthir merely looked sullen.

“You may not be so lucky,” said Curufin, “I intend to dismiss her. Someone like _that_ is unworthy to heal the heir to the High King of the Noldor.”

Anger rose in Fingon at the words, _someone like that_. He opened his mouth to challenge Curufin, but before he could, Maglor spoke.

“Atariel is staying, Curufin,” he said evenly, “She saved Maedhros’s life on the night Fingon brought him back to us. Have you forgotten your debt to them already?”

“Fine, then,” Curufin replied, “She can stay, then. But you–”

He glared at Fingon, who stood his ground. 

“I’m staying, too,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

In a flash, Curufin’s hand flew to the scabbard on his hip. 

Instinctively, Fingon, too, closed his hand around the hilt of his dagger. But even as Curufin drew his weapon and held it before him in a challenge, Fingon let go, and slowly raised his open palms. 

“Draw your weapon, Fingon,” snarled Curufin, “If you are beaten, then you forfeit the right to our brother’s bedside.”

Fingon took a single step backward. It was not a game he could afford to play, but he could see no way out.

“And if I win?” he said, “if I win, you’ll let me see Maedhros?”

Curufin’s lips curved into a sneer that showed he had no intention of keeping the promise he was about to make: “Naturally.”

“Look, Curufin,” said Fingon, “can’t we settle this some other way?”

But his adversary laughed and advanced.

“Don’t waste our time,” he said, “What are you proposing? A game of draughts? I’ll give you one more chance. _Draw your weapon_.”

Just as Fingon had placed his hand once more on the hilt of his dagger, there was a sudden cry, like the wail of a wounded animal. 

Curufin and his brothers turned abruptly away from Fingon, who listened, terrified as well. It now sounded more like groaning, and it was coming from the tent behind them. 

Maedhros. 

The argument forgotten, the sons of Fëanor turned and ran back toward the tent, and Fingon after them, his heart racing with worry. As they entered the tent, he rushed instinctively toward Maedhros’s cot. 

But Curufin was there already. 

Maedhros was groaning, throwing himself around his cot in pain. Curufin quickly seized his thrashing left hand, and Maedhros seemed to calm slightly at his touch. He was still making those awful sounds through clenched teeth, and now he steadied himself, intertwining his fingers with Curufin’s, gripping his younger brother’s hand like a vice. 

“It’s me, Maedhros,” said Curufin.

Curufin placed his arm around Maedhros’s rigid shoulder, cradling him like a child. The mistrustful hiss he had used with Fingon was now gone from his voice. 

Atariel appeared and started to mix up a draught on the back table. Maedhros shivered and groaned, tearing at the wrist dressings as his brothers tried to restrain him.

Atariel brought the medicine over in a silver cup. 

“For the pain.”

Curufin gave her a long, calculating look. Then he took it from her and held it up to his brother’s lips. 

But Maedhros resisted, and spat it out.

“It will help you,” said Curufin, “Please, Maedhros. It’s me. It’s your brother.”

At last, Maedhros stopped writhing. His eyes opened and stared at Curufin’s face. Gradually, he seemed to realize where he was, and obediently swallowed as Curufin tipped the contents of the silver up into his mouth. He breathed deeply a few times. Then he went limp, slumped onto Curufin’s chest.

Fingon watched as Maedhros’s brothers settled his scarred, wraithlike body back to bed, wiped away the bit of medicine at the corner of his mouth, stroked his shorn head. 

Fingon had not meant for his pity and compassion for Maedhros to extend to his brothers, but seeing them now, tending to the sick man without pride or mistrust or malice or wrath, he could not help but to pity them, too. 


	3. The Storm

Maedhros struggled over to the edge of the cot and vomited into the pewter basin on the floor. He gritted his teeth and clutched at the stump of his right hand, holding his breath until the pang finally subsided. He flopped back over, staring at the slender beams in the ceiling of the tent, his chest heaving. 

Awake.

Thangorodrim: ash-blackened rain pelted his face. His right hand was chained to the rock above him, but he did not bother to move his left to wipe the filthy water from his eyes. He could take no shelter, no rest. 

Still awake. Dreaming, but awake.

He stank. His unwashed body hung from the precipice, the fresh wounds from the day congealing in the dust. A few months ago, the sores of malnutrition had appeared on his skin even where he hadn’t been beaten or burned. Bloodsucking insects fed on him. To them, he was another rotting carcass. The rain brought relief from them, at least.

How he hated his body, the fetid cage that tethered him to his torment. Nor would his captors let him die. Just when he thought his spirit might slip away through the spaces between his protruding ribs, they gave him water they had pissed in first, and bread infested with vermin. And afterward, he was ashamed at how greedily he drank, how ravenously he wolfed down the disgusting sustenance. 

Awake: the tent. The same four cloth walls, undulating in yellow light. The same narrow, uncomfortable cot. And another pain that seared through his amputated wrist, another storm of torment that would rush to its howling peak before it gradually abated again. But there would be another to follow. 

Thangorodrim: the lash hissed sharply through the hot, dry air. A white-hot gash across his back now started to throb. Tears sprang to his eyes: an involuntary reaction, a bodily reflex. He did not cry out of suffering now, though he had at first. A child cries out, “ _Why?_ ” after it has been hit. Suffering came from the humiliation of injustice, at perceived mistreatment by the hands of another.

Maedhros did not ask himself, or his captors, “ _Why?_ ” for he had come to the answer on his own: he deserved it, and that was all. He was no innocent child fallen victim to tormentors. He was, rather, like a feral dog, a destructive animal that needed to be punished. 

The Teleri had done them no wrong, but when the skirmish had broken out, he had drawn his sword and joined in the killing. Yet how different it had felt from killing the Orcs, those soulless servants of Morgoth. How different, when his sword had pierced elven armor and red blood, not black, had come guttering out. And the sounds they had made– not mere roars of pain, as the Orcs made, but cries of anguish, confusion, and terror.

 _Ada_ , he had wanted to plead like a child, _Ada, what are we doing? I want to leave this place. I don’t want to hunt for the Silmarils anymore_. _I want to go home_. 

After it was done, he had gone into the trees and forced himself to vomit. He had wanted to be emptied, to be purged. But he could not be. He had taken Elven lives. He had shed their red blood. And now he was soaked in evil, glutted with it. He would never again be clean. The memory of his past deeds would torment him more than the Orcs could ever dream of doing.

In the early morning, he had rubbed his eyes after they disembarked at Losgar and made camp. As he went to bed, he asked, _who are you going to send back, Ada? And when will they bring Fingon?_

His father had laughed. It had been a terrible laugh, harsh and cold, and steeped in madness. 

And then the white sails were catching fire, and the fire spread greedily over the graceful stays, and up the slim masts splintering into the firth. As his brothers hurled torches at the remaining ships, Maedhros had stood frozen, staring desperately across the cold, black water toward Araman, where his friends would awaken to find themselves abandoned, with no path to safety except across the deadly Helcaraxë. 

Thangorodrim: another stinging lash. This one coiled and bit cruelly into his cheek. He should have known. He should have seen that if Fëanor was capable of killing the Teleri, he would not hesitate to abandon his closer kin. He strained at the shackle on his wrist, screaming at his captors, at the doomed world, at the tempest inside himself–

_“Take me! Just take me!”_

“Maedhros! _Maedhros!_ ”

_“Just let me die–!”_

“Maedhros, it’s only a dream. Maedhros, wake up!”

Maedhros bolted awake. He was in the tent again. Curufin and Maglor were there. The rest must have gone to bed, taking their rest in turns. 

“You were dreaming of Thangorodrim, weren’t you?” asked Maglor, his eyes full of concern. 

Maedhros absently nodded. 

“It’s all right now,” said Curufin, “it’s in the past. We’re here with you now.”

But Maedhros scowled and turned to face the wall. 

“Fingon shouldn’t have come for me,” he said, “He should have left me on Thangorodrim. ”

There was silence, and Maedhros knew that behind him, his brothers were exchanging shocked glances. 

“Maedhros,” Maglor finally said, “you don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it. He should have left me to die. Or else he should have killed me.”

Maglor’s gentle eyes filled at once with hurt. 

“How can you say that?” he cried? “How can you–”

“Because he’s a coward!” came Curufin’s furious shout, “Because our brother is too afraid to face what he did! What we all did!”

“Quiet, Curufin,” said Maglor’s voice, now angry, “You don’t know what you’re saying. Maedhros wasn’t being serious. He doesn’t really mean he wants to die. Do you?”

“If you don’t take it back,” shouted Curufin, “then I’ll kill you myself!”

Maedhros had had enough. 

“Get out!” he shouted, “Both of you! Leave me alone!” 

Another silence followed. Then Curufin stormed out of the tent, and Maglor went silently after him.

The pain in his wrist started again in its familiar pattern: a dull ache, at first, then squeezing, stabbing, suffocating. Once more, he rolled onto his side and vomited into the pewter basin. What came up now was acid and water. His stomach had been emptied over the course of the night. 

He heaved and spluttered miserably, waiting for the waves of sickness to pass.

Then he felt someone’s hand against his shoulder blade, a touch gentler than anything he had ever known. Before the person said a single word, he knew at once who it was.

Idril sat in the middle of her tent, put her hands against her temples, and screamed.

“Idril, please,” begged Turgon, trying to pick her up, “come to bed.”

Idril struggled so fiercely against his hands that he had to let go, afraid to hurt her. She hadn’t had a tantrum like this in a long time, and he had almost forgotten just how terrifying these were to him. He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with the screaming mass of rage that minutes ago had been his daughter. 

_Elenwë_ , he called silently to his dead wife, _I need you._

“I want my Mama!” she wailed, beating her small fists into the ground.

“I know,” said Turgon desperately, “I know. But I’m here, my darling. I’m here.”

“I want Mama!” sobbed Idril again, “I don’t want you!”

These words stung his heart so sharply that he recoiled. Idril continued to writhe and wail on the ground until at last, she exhausted, and lay in a little heap, moaning. Turgon lifted her and held her to his chest. She fumblingly threw her arms around him, her head tossed limply onto his shoulder, soaking his shirt with her tears. Her body continued to jerk with her slowing sobs. Turgon began to walk around the tent, gently rocking her. At length, Idril closed her eyes and put her fist in her mouth, suckling it. 

Elenwë’s voice had been deep and cool, like a pond in the spring. She had smelled faintly of lilies. She had been older than he, by a few years, and as mysterious to him as she was precious. She used to sing to him as he lay in her arms.

“What song is that?” he would ask her, and she would laugh, “I don’t know. Just some little tune,” and she would kiss the back of his neck. 

_Why? Why you?_

Idril had fallen asleep. Her hand, covered in drool, drifted out of her mouth. Her breathing was slow and even. Turgon put her to bed, and sat down quietly at the edge of the cot, watching her sleep. 

_Elenwë, how am I to do this alone? How am I to raise Idril without you?_

Though he had been hurt and at a loss for what to do when Idril’s mood had suddenly turned on him, he understood her rage better than anyone. There were times he wanted to scream, to cry, to throw himself against walls, as Idril did. There were times he wanted to set the whole world on fire. When first he had seen the sons of Fëanor after their desertion in Araman, he had been so horribly, unbearably livid that he’d made bloody divots in his palms from clenching his fists. How dared they stand before him, all seven of them together, alive and well when she was not? The thought of uniting in friendship with them made him ill.

It was, he knew, what Fingon wanted, what he thought was their only hope of saving the Noldor. He had never questioned Fingon’s wisdom before. But for once, he wanted to take his brother’s shoulders and shake them, shouting, _What about me, brother? What about what I want? Forgiveness isn’t yours to give. It’s mine!_

Idril stirred, murmuring. Turgon sang to her, a nameless tune that seemed to come to him from nowhere at all. For an instant, Idril’s eyes half-opened, and fixed on her father, and Elenwë’s eyes looked out at him from Idril’s eyes. But then it was gone.

Fingon handed Maedhros a metal cup of water. He struggled to lift the cup, and Fingon helped him, steadying his trembling left hand. Fingon held his head still as he tipped the water clumsily into his mouth and drank. Then Fingon wiped the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth until the sour, burning liquid was all gone, all the while soothing him softly.

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that I spent the first three days unconscious,” muttered Maedhros. Then, his eyes snapped open as though in sudden realization. But looking at him, Fingon doubted he was truly seeing. 

“Fingon, Fingon,” cried Maedhros, “what are you doing here? It’s too cold, it’s far too cold–”

“Maedhros, it's all right!”

“You’ll never make it out alive. You’ll never forgive me.”

“Maedhros, where do you think we are?”

Maedhros shuddered and thrashed feverishly in his cot.

“You’re in Araman. You’re watching the smoke go up on the horizon. And I’m far away. Too far away for you to see. Too far away to hear me.”

Fingon put his hand against his friend’s temple. 

“You’re delirious,” he said grimly, and turned to fetch another cool rag. 

“I deserved it,” Maedhros rambled on, “I said so to my brothers just now, and upset Maglor, and angered Curufin, and I sent them away. But you know the truth, don’t you, Fingon? You, my friend, whom I so wronged?”

He babbled on this way, hysterical, until Fingon pressed the wetted cloth to his neck. 

“I forgave you long ago,” said Fingon softly, “though you didn’t know it. I forgave you when I learned you went to entreat with Morgoth alone, without any of your brothers, though you were taken then. You were trying to protect them. Like you used to protect me.”

Maedhros gave a soft sigh and closed his eyes. 

“But I didn’t protect you. And it can’t be undone.”

Fingon ran the rag across Maedhros’s forehead, going gently over the cuts.

“For that,” he said, “you’ve been through enough.”

Somehow, Fingon put Maedhros back to sleep. Fingon watched over him worriedly for some time, looking for any sign of distress that might mean another waking dream, another frenzied trance when he wouldn’t know where he was. But Maedhros slept soundly now, his breathing even and his brow unfurrowed. 

Fingon lingered, awake, at his bedside. Though he still mourned Elenwë’s fate, he grieved also that Maedhros’s suffering should be so prolonged, that he had to bear the guilt of what he and his brothers had done, alongside everything else– if only he could take that burden away from him. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all Maedhros.

The next day, when Atariel appeared in Maedhros’s tent precisely at dawn, as she always did, she informed Fingon that she would not return the next day.

“I’m to be sent north, and stationed there as part of a small healing division. And Maedhros will be taken to the House of Healing at the mouth of the Teiglin before I return. So I don’t believe I shall see you for a while.”

“I suppose this is good-bye, then,” said Fingon, trying his best to hide his disappointment at the departure of a skilled healer, and a new friend.

“I wish you the best in uniting the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. Remember, the healing will take time. More time than you think. Lord Maedhros is strong, and his body will recover. But terrible wounds have also been dealt to his soul. You must watch for them when the time comes. These will be the most difficult of all.”


	4. Y.S. 472 - Treatise on the Battles of the Years of the Sun - the Chronicles of Maedhros

From the _Treatise on the Battles of the Years of the Sun - the Chronicles of Maedhros:_

_As the sun rises on the third day, we resume our march from where we made camp in the hills north of Gelion. The icy wind pelts us from the North, and the Dwarves are shivering, far away from their warm underground homes. These hills offer little protection, whether from the elements or from our enemies. But Morgoth won’t be looking for us; not yet, at least. If we have our way, then by the time they’ve been alerted to our presence, we’ll be halfway across Angfaulith, and the beacon will have been lit in the highest tower of Dorthonion, signaling your forces to attack from the West._

_Some may think it strange I’ve written this chronicle as though it’s a letter to you, my friend. To those readers I will say only this: wars are not fought by nations or by races. They are led, and fought, and lost, by people. Four hundred years ago or more, my best friend Fingon saved my life, and healed the great rift between our families that my father, my brothers and I had caused, in the swearing of an Oath which may be known to some of you. Fingon helped me find my way when I had lost it utterly. And so I address this work to him in a gesture of gratitude that shall never be fully expressed, and in respect to a debt that shall never be repaid._

_War is yet new to us Elves, as the other races call us. Therefore I endeavor to keep only the most honest of records, in the hope that those born after me may learn from my triumphs, and from my failures. You see, I myself devised my plan from observing the wolves on the plain. They surround the herds of elk and then scatter them, and the weakest among them become dinner._

_For centuries, we’ve been the elk crouched in the hills, hiding from our doom– but no more. Today we are the wolves, my friend. And we’ll hunt Morgoth, the Enemy of the World, until his evil threatens our homes no more. For when we reach the barren plain Angfaulith, we will draw the enemy forth from Angband, and you will bring them to heel from the west. Our forces might have been greater had we not made so many enemies in the early days, but we are far from defenseless._

_My brothers and I have among our forces, in addition to the Elven hosts of Himring, the Dwarves of Belegost, and the Easterlings, led by two Men named Ulfang and Bór. A friendship with them I had sought after the Dagor Bragollach– the mortal men had seemed strange in their ways to me, as ours must have seemed to them. But I am even more wary of our friendship with the Dwarves, the stunted miners of the earth, who look far more unlike us than do those pale Men. Though it does not pay these days to be choosy with one’s allies, it gives me unease to trust those so different from myself._

_There are low dust clouds rising in the West–_

_Please note that as I look upon this strange sight, I do not pen the words, “There are low dust clouds rising in the West.” For practicality’s sake, though I write this treatise as though the events are happening as I speak, I won’t really put most of these words to the paper until the battle is long over. If this hinders the veracity of my account, then I do humbly apologize._

_There are low dust clouds rising in the West. I train my elven-sight on the horizon, but even the Men about me can see the flocks of crows taking flight in a frenzy. Impulsively I grip the wrist of the bronze prosthetic that replaces the hand you cut from me so long ago, the hand by which I hung from the wall of Thangorodrim._

_It seems that an infantry battle has broken out early– but why? And between whom? We had agreed upon the signal from Dorthonion, had we not? Twin fears begin to twist in my heart like serpents: my fear for the fate of Arda. And my fear for you. But by now, I’ve learned that no army, nor officer, nor ally, nor enemy, may be allowed to learn of one’s fear._

_At the heart of all warfare is deception._

_A single set of trotting hoofbeats to my right. My brother Maglor appears on his midnight stallion. He has learned to keep his face impassive, as I have, but I know of his tells more than the other generals do._

_“What is your counsel, Maedhros?” my brother asks. The others are approaching as well: Azaghâl, Lord of the Dwarves of Belegost, riding a donkey the size of a small bull. Ulfang and Bór, the Easterling chieftains, their pale skin greenish in the rising sun. And the rest of my brothers: Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. It’s been years since we were all together at once. And this time may be the last._

_I consider Maglor’s question in earnest. If the battle has started on the western front, then we will not be able to follow my original plan to the letter. But if Morgoth’s army has attacked the plain already, we may retain our original advantage if we close in on them from the east. A two-day march remains between us and Hithlum, but we can afford a day’s worth of double time and make it one and a half. We’ve been saving up our rest for the last few days, taking our time. The generals have assembled about me, searching my face for signs of doubt or weakness. I look each one square in the eyes and raise my voice, so all can hear._

_“We will hasten our march across Angfaulith,” I cry out, “Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin and the Dwarves– you will split off at my signal and flank them from the south. Maglor, Ambarussa– you will ride with me and take the northern flank. Ulfang, Bór– you will take up the rear. We have the numbers we need to hobble them on three sides. We will join Fingon’s forces then and surround them._

_The generals exchange looks. One by one, they nod in assent and ride off toward their armies. I hear my orders passed among the ranks of the soldiers, from Elves to Dwarves and from Men to Elves. And my own name as the message spreads to each of a thirty thousand strong: “So says Maedhros. So says Maedhros. So says Maedhros.”_

_As the sun rises to our backs, we commence our march out of the hills, and onto the plains once soft and green, now charred to a desolate wasteland pocked with the bones of our dead._

_The serpents of fear in my heart twist around and around each other, restless._


	5. Oblivions

Maedhros held his right arm outstretched as Fingon unraveled the dirtied dressings. The bandages came away smelling of pus, sweat and old blood. Maedhros looked away, disgusted.

“Am I hurting you?” asked Fingon, as he tugged gently at the last of the dressings, stuck to Maedhros’s skin. Maedhros shook his head in what was, by this time, a habitual lie. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip, forcing himself not to groan as Fingon washed the healing stump in a basin of soapy water. 

“It’s such foul work,” he muttered, “I wish you didn’t have to do it.”

Fingon paused briefly in his washing and smiled up at him.

“It’s not foul for me. Not if it’s for you.”

He finished rinsing the stump, patted it dry with a clean cloth, and began to wrap a fresh bandage around it. Maedhros watched him work, applying the leaves of the bandage as he always did in neat, intertwining layers. 

“Thank you,” he said, waving his bandaged arm, “that feels better.”

Fingon smiled again, happy, as he always was, to have cared for him. 

Maedhros was stronger now, less skeletally thin. His red hair had grown out in a messy halo around his head. After a few weeks at the House of Healing, he could sit up almost fully now, with another’s help. But infuriatingly, he was yet unable to walk. His first stubborn attempt to stand on his own, despite the warnings of his nurses, had led to a humiliating collapse at the foot of his bed and, too proud to cry out for help, he had lain there, facedown and cursing silently, until his exasperated nurse found him this way a half hour later and put him back to bed. 

“Do you want to go outside?” asked Fingon, “The sky is clear, and you can see mountains for leagues and leagues.”

Maedhros flushed and said nothing at first.

“Maedhros?”

“You’d need to carry me again,” he pointed out, humiliated.

“Well– yes,” said Fingon, as though this were obvious. But seeing Maedhros’s stormy expression, he understood. 

“Maedhros, I know you don’t like asking for help. But it doesn’t mean you’re helpless or incapable. Let me help you. It’s what I want to do.”

Maedhros closed his eyes. “All right.”

Fingon leaned over the bed and gathered Maedhros up, as he had time and time again the last few weeks. It was not an easy task. Maedhros was tall, though still far too thin, and his form was awkward and cumbersome for Fingon to carry. Fingon and Celegorm were the only ones thus far to successfully lift him from his bed and take him elsewhere. Any other time he wanted to get around, he had to be carted about by a team of nurses, which he hated. 

They went out into the walkway, along which stood a row of tall, graceful sandstone arches.

The House of Healing was once a temple of the Grey Elves, built in honor of the Vala Ulmo, the lord of the sea. The rooms were once the cells of the acolytes, and there were a dining hall and stables as well. These structures formed a rough crescent around the courtyard. All around sprawled a forest of towering old elms, and a single elm in the center of the courtyard, the tallest of all, shaded the roofs in some places.There were at times many patients here, and at times only one.

Fingon carried Maedhros across the courtyard to the far end, and set him down in the shade facing the arched entryway, through which he could see out over the hilltops to the south. The afternoon breeze rustled through the leaves, and tousled Maedhros’s short, dark red hair. 

“You won’t have to do that for much longer, said Maedhros, ”I’ll walk again soon.”

Fingon sat down beside Maedhros and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, and gazed upward through the branches of the elm.

“I don’t mind it,” said Fingon, shrugging, “I’ll do it for as long as I need to.”

Maedhros was suddenly annoyed by Fingon’s nonchalance.

“I mean it,” he said crossly, “I don’t want you to have to take care of me any more. I’m not a child. I don’t want to be cleaned, and fed, and carried every day like I’m a sick baby bird. It’s embarrassing.”

“Maedhros,” said Fingon, “I want you to get stronger. Why not let me take care of you?”

Maedhros struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“It’s not that I don’t like having you here,” he said, “I really do. But I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”

Hurt, Fingon replied, “I will gladly tend to your wounds, bring you food and water, and carry you every day until you are healed. I know that you would do the same for me.”

Maedhros was quiet for a time. His eyes were dark and brooding.

Then he softly, he asked, “What if I am never healed?”

Fingon turned toward him in surprise. 

“What do you mean?”

“What if I was never able to walk again?” demanded Maedhros, “What if my wounds never closed? What if I stayed crippled until oblivion? What then?”

“Then,” said Fingon simply, “I would carry you every day until oblivion.”

“You don’t know what you are saying!” cried Maedhros, frustrated now.

“Yes, I do.”

Very seriously, Fingon reached over and took Maedhros’s left hand in both of his own. Maedhros looked up at him, uncomprehending. 

“Maedhros,” said Fingon, “have I ever given you reason to doubt my word?”

“No, Fingon.”

“Then I meant what I said. If you could not walk, I would lay down my arms and retire from the wars of Beleriand. I would resign from uniting the Noldor and leave the vanquishing Morgoth to someone else. I would give command of my armies to my brother, and I would stay with you, whatever the fate of Arda.”

Maedhros searched Fingon’s eyes desperately, and finding no lie within them, he shivered, and his voice broke.

“I don’t want you to give your life to me,” he said, “Don’t you understand? There’s no future left to me but darkness.”

Fingon gently brushed a lock of hair out of Maedhros’s eyes.

“You don’t know that,” said Fingon, “No one can. No prophecy foretells everything.”

Maedhros looked away.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

The matter was dropped. Then Maedhros’s eyes went oddly blank, and Fingon knew he had been shut out again. He reprimanded himself inwardly for another conversation so botched. He had wanted to tell Maedhros, in no uncertain terms, that he meant to keep his word; that he didn’t mean to leave the path if it proved too long and perilous. But something clearly had stirred in Maedhros just now, a buried pain he could not yet understand. 

Part of him wanted to take Maedhros by the shoulders and shake him like an exasperated parent, to shout at him, “Tell me! Just tell me where it hurts!” 

Maedhros’s body was mending itself day by day. Even the vestiges of his old beauty had returned to it. 

_Lord Maedhros is strong,_ Atariel had said, _and his body will recover. But terrible wounds have also been dealt to his soul. You must watch for them when the time comes. These will be the most difficult of all._

In the wake of Fingon’s silence, Maedhros turned away. 

There were no bells left to sound in his heart. Even now that his physical pain had gradually begun to subside, an emptiness seemed to replace it, a part of an illness familiar to him for a long time now. For it had never really left him at all, though the wounds of his flesh had distracted him for a time: the blindness for anything lovely, the chasm of hopelessness within him through which he could fall forever. 

It was waiting for him just when he thought he’d fallen asleep, or whenever he allowed his mind to quiet in the course of his day. There was no way to describe it– no scar or severed bone or bruise or burn to point to. There was no way to tell someone who did not already know for himself.

How could Fingon hope to heal what he could not comprehend? How could he mend a hurt that he couldn’t see? He could not be there every time Maedhros lay buried in that darkness, and tell him over and over again that everything would turn out all right. He could not hold him fast to the world every time he threatened to sink into his suffering, and pull him out again, every day until oblivion.

 _But_ , he pleaded silently, _but just stay here with me though I’m asking you not to. Just wait with me though I would rather you were spared._

Fingon tugged on Maedhros’s sleeve, momentarily pulling him from these thoughts.

“Look, Maedhros,” he said, “there, in the west. I can see a bird on the top of the tree.”

Maedhros lifted his head and strained his sight in the direction Fingon was pointing, through the archway and over the mountains. He, too, could see the bird, though it was so far away it was little more than a speck against the white sky. They had played this game often in their youth, but not thereafter. Now Maedhros, too, intently searched the distant horizon.

“It was a bird,” he agreed, “but I can see farther than that. See there? The top of that tree was struck by lightning, and its tip is broken off.”

Fingon laughed and shielded his eyes from the sun.

“What? Are you sure? Well, I can see further still…”

No one in the House of Healing would disturb their short excursion. A few lonely birds broke the silence of early afternoon as the two went on playing their game for some time. 

Turgon, Aredhel, and Idril plodded on through the winding mountain paths, on their way to visit Fingon at the House of Healing. 

“Where is this place, again?” grumbled Turgon, whose clothes had been soaked in the rain a few hours ago and now remained uncomfortably damp. 

“Not far away now,” said Aredhel brightly. She and Idril had forgotten their rain-cloaks, and so Turgon had lent his, which had been large enough to cover both of them. They felt pleasantly dry as the cool northern wind swept past. 

Turgon sneezed unhappily. 

“Look!” cried Idril suddenly, and pointed to the top of the hill ahead. The rounded roofs of the House of Healing were just visible through the thick screen of elm-branches. Turgon groaned in relief, flopping forward in his saddle. His horse snorted, twitching its ears.

Aredhel gave Turgon a pitying glance.

“I’ll help stable the horses,” she offered, “Why don’t you see if they can heat a bath for you? And then we can rest a little before dinner.”

“Whatever you say,” said Turgon, and sneezed again.

The stables were a short distance away from the rest of the House, built around a smaller court with a stone drinking trough. A wooden hitching rail stood on either side. Aredhel dismounted, and then lifted Idril out of the saddle and set her down. As soon as Idril’s feet touched the ground, she took off running up the hill toward the House, apparently in search of her uncle.

Aredhel took the bridles of her horse and Turgon’s, and led them toward the trough. The tired horses lowered their heads and began to slurp up the water greedily. As they drank, they patiently allowed her to unsaddle them. Their beautiful bodies gleamed with sweat from their long journey, and they shook out their coats, grateful to be so unburdened. When the horses had drunk their fill, Aredhel petted their long, pretty necks and put them each away in one of the roomy stalls filled with fresh hay. Then she went to retrieve the saddles from where she had left them temporarily on the hitching rail.

As she walked out of the second stall, she noticed a man walking toward the stables, who stopped short as soon as he noticed her looking at him.

Aredhel’s chest tightened.

It was Celegorm.

It was the first time they had come face to face alone since the betrayal at Araman. She took a step backward, immediately on her guard. But Celegorm merely looked mildly surprised. The Ambarussa appeared a moment later, followed by Huan, Celegorm’s enormous grey Valinorian hound. The twins, like Celegorm, froze at the sight of her. But Huan wagged his tail and gave a bark of recognition.

Celegorm started to walk in her direction. Aredhel tensed.

“Don’t,” she warned. 

For an instant, Celegorm looked astonished. Then a self-satisfied grin stretched across his face. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked, and behind him, the twins snickered.

Gleefully, he advanced another step. “Bet you couldn’t hit me from here.”

Furious, Aredhel spun around, reaching for the scabbard laced to one of the saddles, and in one smooth motion, drew the knife and readied it at her side. Celegorm’s grin faded.

“Aredhel,” he said, “I was joking–”

“Well, I wasn’t!” she snapped, marching toward him. Celegorm now stumbled back. 

“I don’t fight girls,” he sneered, but nonetheless, his right hand drifted to the handle of his dagger.

“You had better start now!” she yelled, and her curved knife sliced through the air. Celegorm barely managed to draw his dagger and parry the blow. Both of them leapt back. They circled each other, glaring. Amrod and Amras exchanged glances, unsure whether they were about to witness a mock battle or a real one. Huan looked back and forth from Aredhel to Celegorm, whimpering.

They lunged at each other. Steel sang against steel at a rapid clip. The fighters sprang apart, spun, and flew together again terrifying, fluid dance. Celegorm’s dagger arced overhead. Aredhel knocked his wrist aside and threw her shoulder into his chest, unbalancing him. But he was stronger than she, and grabbed her across the neck. She spun and threw her head back against him, and at the same time rammed the hilt of her blade into his stomach. She then slid easily from the chokehold while he grunted in pain and surprise.

Celegorm was now open for an attack, his dagger hanging uselessly at his side. She rushed toward him. Suddenly, Celegorm drew a second dagger with his left hand. He crossed the blades before his chest, and threw her back. Aredhel fell backward and hit the stone ground heavily on her side. She let out an involuntary whimper. 

Celegorm dropped his daggers at once and ran to her side.

“Aredhel, I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly, “That wasn’t fair. You should have won. I just didn’t want to get beaten by a girl.”

He tried to help her up. Aredhel pushed him away, tears starting in her eyes.

“I said I was sorry,” said Celegorm, “What’s the matter?”

“How could you do it?” she sobbed, “How could you just leave us?”

All of Celegorm’s bluster was gone. He watched her helplessly. 

“Aredhel–”

But she rose painfully to her feet and ran.

Amrod and Amras had retrieved his daggers for him. Celegorm took them back and sheathed them, cursing under his breath.

“Where’s she going?” he asked them furiously, as though they might know the answer.

Meanwhile, Turgon had found the bathhouse. As he approached, he noticed a thin column of smoke was rising steadily from the furnace below. Someone else was already inside, for which Turgon was glad. It meant the bath was already heated. 

Turgon proceeded through a small antechamber and into the main room. The interior was clean and dark, and only a sliver of light was permitted to enter through a single slit in the wall. There was a rectangular pool sunk into the smooth stone floor, and a set of simple but convenient enclaves by the door for belongings. Steam rose from the pool and curled around the low, domed ceiling. Turgon stripped off his wet clothes, folded them, and placed them in one of the stone enclaves. He was used to such communal arrangements by now. At the camp, he and Fingon shared sleeping quarters, and they all ate at the same table as their valets. It had to be thus until permanent halls could be completed in Mithrim, and they could again enjoy the luxury of private spaces.

Turgon waded into the hot water eagerly. It was just the right temperature– a little too hot. He slid in up to his chin and closed his eyes. The steam gathered into droplets on his face, and his undone hair fanned about him. He opened his eyes, and he noticed the other man in the pool staring back at him. 

At once, he gasped, and then choked on the mouthful of hot water he had taken in.

“Fëanor!” he cried in a panic. But the man on the other side of the pool wasn’t Fëanor, though they looked so startlingly alike.

It was Curufin. 


	6. Caranthir's Mark

Turgon started to struggle out of the pool. His feet slid on the underwater stairs, and he briefly lost his balance before catching hold of the edge of the pool. Frantically, he pushed himself upward and out of the water.

On the other side of the pool, Curufin averted his gaze.

 _“Ai, Manwë_ ,” he snapped, “warn me before you do that next time; you’re not wearing anything!”

“I wasn’t when I got in, either!” cried Turgon, still splashing up the last few stairs.

“Yes, and I closed my eyes when I heard you coming, as any decent person would!”

Anger suddenly flared inside Turgon.

“Decent? You? You’re not decent!”

“ _You’re_ not decent!”

Curufin was still shielding his eyes with his hands. 

“All right, then, I’m leaving,” said Turgon angrily, “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Wait.” 

Turgon groaned. “What?”

Curufin peered out from between his fingers.

“Come back,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”

Turgon shivered from where he stood on the bank.

“Right this minute?”

The other man gestured around him at the steam-filled bathhouse. His impatient disdain recalled the Curufin he knew from long ago: sharp-witted and superior from early youth. His smugly talented first cousin. 

“It took me forever to heat the pool, you know,” he pointed out, “You may as well get in.”

Turgon briefly weighed his reluctance for Curufin’s company against his significant desire to be submerged once more up to his chin in warm water. The latter won out, and he slipped back into the pool.

“Actually,” said Turgon, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”

The light from the slitlike window reflected off the water, casting faint greenish hues across Curufin’s face as he returned Turgon’s gaze across the seething surface of the pool. Watching the steam eddy and float around them, Turgon thought suddenly of ghosts, of countless departing souls, floating through nothingness as they rose from the earth and silently journeyed on. It made Curufin seem like an otherworldly apparition: a spirit of the past. 

“All right, then,” said Curufin, “I’ll go first.”

“Very well,” agreed Turgon, settling back into the froth.

“Just now, you called me by my father’s name. Why did you do that?”

Curufin’s tone was, surprisingly, neither accusing nor scornful as it had been with Fingon. He only seemed curious. 

“It was a mistake,” replied Turgon, “You look very much like your father, Curufin.”

But Curufin was not satisfied.

“You ran from me,” he pressed.

Turgon exhaled slowly, looking up at the domed ceiling above. Yes, he had run from Curufin, and not merely because he had mistaken him for his father. If Maedhros had stood aside during the burning of the ships at Losgar, Curufin certainly had not. With no way out, Turgon took it as a sign, then, that this meeting was to take place for a reason. 

It was time to confront a man almost directly responsible for Elenwë’s fate.

“You have a son, don’t you, Curufin?” he asked measuredly.

Curufin searched Turgon’s face, guessing at his motives.

“I do. Celebrimbor. Born a few years before the rising of the Sun.”

Turgon nodded thoughtfully.

“I have a daughter about that age. Idril.”

Curufin said nothing. He sat forward and waited silently for Turgon to go on, his eyes still fixed intently on Turgon’s.

“Idril’s mother,” he said, “was named Elenwë.”

He saw Curufin’s jaw clench involuntarily, burned by the sound of her name. But Turgon wasn’t finished. 

“I want you to say her name aloud, Curufin,” said Turgon, “My wife’s name was Elenwë.”

Curufin’s brow furrowed in anguish, but he obeyed.

“Elenwë,” he finally choked out, “What happened to her?”

Turgon, too, leaned forward, knowing he had Curufin’s full attention now.

“I think you know what happened to my wife,” he said quietly, and Curufin shuddered. 

Turgon went on, “But I want to know what happened to Celebrimbor’s mother, too.”

Curufin raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked.

“Don’t you owe me that much?”

The son of Fëanor shifted backward against the wall of the pool like a man trapped. In his discomfort, he suddenly looked very vulnerable, much like he had as a boy, caught breaking one of his father’s many rules. He took a deep breath before answering Turgon’s question.

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” said Curufin, “She came with us as far as Araman, but when Finarfin forsook the march, she wanted to leave too. She begged me to let her take Celebrimbor with her, but I refused. I told her if she would not follow, she would be exiled from the House of Fëanor, and never allowed to see her son again.” 

He suddenly averted his eyes. He seemed to shrink somewhat in shame. 

“A few days later, after we burned the ships at Losgar, she and Celebrimbor were nowhere to be found. We sent a search party out and recovered Celebrimbor, unhurt, returning alone to the camp. Perhaps my wife, fearing the journey too perilous for him, had sent him back to safety alone. Had she returned as well, she would have had to face the consequences of her treason.”

After the story was finished, Curufin glared at Turgon, his expression at once defiant and guarded, as though daring him to pass judgment, yet fearful of that same opinion.

“That,” said Turgon, “is a horrible thing to do to a child.”

Curufin flinched, as though Turgon had brandished a knife at him.

“Don’t you think I know that?” he cried, “When Celebrimbor was found, we asked him what had happened, and where his mother had gone. He would not answer. In fact, he didn’t say a single word for a year after that. What harm I’ve done to him, I'll never know for sure– I, his own father!”

Turgon continued to watch Curufin flounder, now obviously frantic and upset, on the other side of the pool. 

“Then you must know,” said Turgon in a low voice, “that it was also a horrible thing that your own father did to you.”

Fingon and Caranthir chanced upon each other on the paths down to the stables. Aredhel, Celegorm and the Ambarussa had gone by then. They greeted one another.

“I was just looking for my siblings,” explained Fingon as they walked down the path together, “I believe they arrived a little while ago.”

“I was doing the same,” said Caranthir, “Celegorm and the Ambarussa were going to go hunt for supper. But their horses are still here.”

They both looked curiously around at the stables, uninhabited now except for the horses chomping on hay in their stalls, and Huan, napping under the elm trees. Fingon noticed the two saddles that had been left on the hitching rail near most of their belongings.

“Aredhel and Turgon were here too,” he realized.

“Curses,” said Caranthir, “I wonder where they all went off to. Well, there’s still time for you and me to go instead. And we can all share it for supper afterwards.”

Fingon smiled. 

“That seems like a good idea. I’m already hungry.”

And so they gathered up their hunting-weapons, tacked up the horses, and awakened Huan, who huffed good-naturedly. He stretched and yawned so mightily the birds scattered from the branches of elm. Then they rode into the forest, Huan loping just ahead, leaving gigantic pawprints in the mud.

The birthmark on Caranthir’s face was what most people tended to notice about him first. It was irregular and dark red, like someone had spilled wine across his skin and stained it. It covered his entire left cheek, and spread in streaks across his nose and forehead, so it was often said to resemble a handprint in shape. 

Aside from the mark, Caranthir was not especially attractive, even if one removed the comparison to his brothers, who were widely considered to be among the most beautiful of the Noldor. He had a square, inelegant jaw, clearly inherited from his mother’s father, and close-set eyes. He seemed often on edge, always lurking in the wings, watching others closely and appearing either indifferent or annoyed.

They rode on until Huan stopped short, sniffed the wind, and then whined at a spot on the ground. It was a set of deer tracks, left by a sizable stag judging by the depth of the imprint.

“Well done, Huan,” said Caranthir, and they began to follow the deer’s trail into the trees. Huan again ran ahead, bounding from tree to tree in pursuit of the animal’s scent, until the hunters eventually lost sight of him. Fingon and Caranthir were silent as they rode deeper into the forest, careful not to startle their quarry.

At length, in the distance ahead, Huan began to bark, and there was a heavy rustling of the underbrush. He had found the stag and was giving chase. Caranthir nudged his horse into a steady canter after the hound, and Fingon followed close behind.

Unlike Celegorm and the Ambarussa, Fingon did not make a sport of hunting. Huan’s barking grew louder and more frenetic, and the stag’s hooves pounded the forest floor as it thrashed through the brush evading capture. They kept up their pursuit, racing their horses through creeks and over boulders, until at last they broke into a small glade and waited for Huan, their bows strung and ready.

The stag leapt out of the trees and halfway across the clearing with Huan at his heels. A magnificent set of antlers crowned its enormous head, and upon seeing Fingon and Caranthir waiting, the stag wheeled and tried to flee back into the forest. Caranthir loosed his arrow then, but as the animal spun, it missed the mark by a hair and sank into the ground.

“Now, Fingon!” cried Caranthir, and Fingon took his shot. The bowstring sang a wrathful note and snapped past his forearm, sending the long, heavy arrow whining through the air. It hit the stag in the neck, through and through, with such force that the animal flew sideways, bellowing, before crumpling to the ground. 

“Incredible,” remarked Caranthir, his eyes wide, “I can’t believe Curufin thought he’d win a duel against you.” 

Fingon shouldered his bow. The two men dismounted to investigate the kill. Caranthir unsheathed a curved silver knife. Huan, panting, padded after them, proudly wagging his tail.

The stag was dead. Its mouth was open, its head twisted and its neck pinned to the soft ground by the arrow. Seven long, sharp tines graced each antler. 

“What a shame,” Fingon murmured to himself. Caranthir glanced at him questioningly as he stepped on the stag’s neck and pulled, twisted and jerked Fingon’s arrow out. 

“What do you mean?” said Caranthir, “it was a spectacular shot. A clean kill.”

He wiped off the arrow and handed it back to Fingon, who slid it carefully back into his quiver. He felt almost foolish explaining his thoughts to Caranthir.

“Just that we had to bring down such a beautiful animal. It always saddened me.”

Caranthir gave him another uncomprehending stare as he took the stag’s limp foreleg and pulled the carcass onto its back.

“Fingon,” he said, “do the wolves mourn the elk? Or the falcons when they snatch up rabbits? We are mere animals ourselves. Sometimes we’re hunters, and sometimes we’re prey. There’s no real tragedy in that.”

Fingon knelt on the opposite side of the carcass from Caranthir. Together they cut the belly open from the rib cage down to the base of the tail. 

“You really don’t think we’re any different from beasts?” asked Fingon, as Caranthir removed the liver and threw it to Huan, who huffed gratefully and began to devour it at once, bloodying his maw. 

“No,” replied Caranthir, “I never have. Even when I was a child, I had this ugly mark on my face. It set me apart from people. I grew to see them almost as a different species from myself, and no different than any other beast. Stupid. Predictable. Selfish. Every now and then there is an exception, but overall–”

He paused to place the other internal organs in a sack, and then proceeded to slice through the diaphragm and began removing the heart and lungs. 

“–overall I’ve had no reason to think we have any status, or purpose, above the rest. We are glad for the sun on our faces, a good meal, and companionship. We hurt and kill when we are attacked, or when what is ours is taken from us. The only thing that makes us different is that we hang onto the earth for a bit longer.”

“But,” protested Fingon, helping Caranthir gather up the remainder of the entrails and cast them into the forest, “don’t we have a greater sense of justice, of kindness? Even a child knows the difference between right and wrong.”

“Huan’s kinder than most of the people I’ve ever met,” said Caranthir, gesturing over to where the hound stood gobbling down the last bit of liver, “and as for justice, or morality, well– not even the worst of us usually do evil for its own sake. Rather, sometimes we want something, and don’t mind the weaker ones who happen to stand in our way. We learn to be ruthless, petty, and mean. We suffer endlessly and meaninglessly. We hurt people. And then we die.”

“That’s an awful thing to say,” said Fingon.

“I’m not saying that life is _always_ bad,” countered Caranthir, “Sometimes there are lovely days like this one. Pretty girls who don’t think I’m a freakish monster. _Ai, Manwë,_ I love pretty girls. It’s a shame they all waste their time on idiots like Celegorm.”

The cleaning finished, Caranthir took the stag by the antlers. In three swift strokes, he beheaded it and cast the head into the forest after the entrails. 

After they had quartered the carcass and loaded it onto their saddles, riding in mid-afternoon back to the House, Fingon asked, “What is it that you want in life, Caranthir?”

Caranthir shrugged, and brushed his dark hair out of his face. The shape of the birthmark looked more than ever like a bloody handprint.

“Just the usual things,” he said, “I want to be left alone most of the time. I want a nice house and perhaps a companion. But no children.”

“No?” asked Fingon.

“No,” Caranthir laughed, “even I’m not that cruel.”

“You don’t see anything truly worth living for,” said Fingon sadly, “You’ve lost all hope.”

“There was never any hope for me,” replied Caranthir.

_It was also a horrible thing that your own father did to you_ , Turgon had said.

“What do you mean?” demanded Curufin, all traces of his remorse gone at the perceived insult toward his late father.

“I mean,” said Turgon, “that it was a terrible thing for Fëanor to swear the Oath. But even worse, he allowed his children to take that same oath. He doomed them all to darkness if they would not pursue his own ambitions to their bitter end.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Curufin, “My brothers and I swore of our own volition. Our father did not force us.”

“Yet he should have been better,” said Turgon, “If I were ever to bind myself to a terrible fate like that before the Valar, my child would have no part in it. But even more than he wronged your brothers, Curufin, he wronged you.”

Curufin shook his head, trying to reject the theory, but his hostile expression gave way slightly to assume a tinge of doubt. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” he said, “My father gave me his own name. He regarded me above all the others. Even Maedhros, who–”

Curufin broke off, his eyes darting back and forth uncertainly. Had he been about to say, _Maedhros, whom he most loved_?

“–who was firstborn,” he said at last.

“Precisely. Your father knew that you, out of all of your brothers, were the most loyal to his cause. So it must have been you he roused first to burn the ships at Losgar.”

“Yes,” he said, “He woke me and told me to gather my brothers. So what? Everyone already knows that.”

Even as his voice wavered, he still fought to conceal the only thing that might redeem him in Turgon’s eyes. Turgon thought: _how badly Fëanor damaged him._

“But you didn’t want to, did you?”

Curufin’s eyes were shining with tears now, and he wiped at them furiously with the heel of his hand. 

“No,” he admitted, “I didn’t.” 

“Then tell me, Curufin,” said Turgon, in the gentle tone he used whenever Idril came home crying. “Tell me why you did.”

Curufin shivered, seeming to vacillate between loathing Turgon and wanting to pour out the entire awful story to him. 

“Curufin,” pressed Turgon again, “let it out. It will help. You didn’t want to obey your father. So why–”

“I don’t know!” Curufin burst out, “All I know is that I didn’t want to. And I didn’t want my brothers to do it; never even woke Maedhros. But I heeded my father because I felt I must. I threw the first torches onto the decks of the ships. I ordered them not to stop until every single mast had splintered into the waves. It was an act of needless cruelty, of no strategic benefit at all. To this day, I don’t know why. I meant to confront him one day. To ask if he repented of making murderers of us all. But then–” Curufin waved his hand helplessly, “then he died.”

“It was noble of you to try and spare your brother,” said Turgon, trying to throw a line out to a drowning man. But Curufin was the type of man who would sooner tie the rope around his neck than let Turgon pull him from the waves.

“No,” he said, “it was my duty. Do you know, the day my father died, I felt something burn brighter? Like all the fire in him was thrown at once onto the pyre inside me. I know I am meant to succeed him in spirit; I intend to keep my rotten inheritance. But if it comforts you, Turgon, I assure you I will suffer for my crimes. I will pay for every drop of innocent blood I’ve shed. It was my father’s fate, and it will be mine.” 

“And Celebrimbor?”

“Not him. He’s a good child, selfless and good-natured, and not at all like me. Perhaps he might even escape all of this untainted.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” said Turgon. 

Curufin glared at him in fresh hate.

“It was a mistake to tell you all of this,” he said, “I would reject your forgiveness even if you offered it to me.”

“No,” replied Turgon, “you’re correct. I will never forgive you for the death of my beloved Elenwë. But for your own sake, son of Fëanor, admit to yourself the ways in which your father robbed you of the man you might have been. For Celebrimbor’s sake, if not for your own.”

With these words, he rose and left the pool, leaving Curufin alone.


	7. The Names of the Trees

Celegorm hadn’t climbed a tree in many years. His attempts to do so now proved short-lived, mortifying and fruitless. The bark slipped beneath his fingers and his shoes slid trying to find purchase on the thick, vertical trunk. 

Cursing, he drew his dagger and hammered the blade into the trunk, embedding it deeply into the wood. Then he sat down at the base of the giant elm. The creek rushed by before him, clear and cool.

“Aredhel,” he called up into the branches, “I know you’re up there.”

A breeze rustled the leaves of the elm, but there was no answer.

Celegorm had no memories of ever walking unsteadily through a furnished nursery. Instead, he remembered running through the trees as fast as his little legs could carry him, and swinging through branches by the light of Laurelin. As he grew older, he learned to fish, to hunt and track, to live for days in the forest alone, equipped with only his bow, knife, and sleeping-roll. One day, as he lay sleeping in the shade of a dogwood tree, a horn had sounded close by. Celegorm, always a light sleeper, pricked up his ears. The sound was musical, somehow friendly. As he contemplated, it sounded again.

Celegorm left his belongings where they were and darted into the woods toward the horn.

It had been thus he came upon the Vala Oromë, waiting patiently for him by a little pond from which Nahar, his gleaming silver mare, tranquilly drank. Thereafter he was seldom seen by his brothers, for he would disappear into the forests alone for long stretches of time with his new companion. Oromë taught him the ways of the beasts: how to hunt them, how to tame them. He taught Celegorm the true names of the trees, the ones by which the trees in their secret spirits called themselves.

He taught them that the trees were connected deep below the ground; that they spoke to one another, and to the world, in once voice made of many. If you slowed down enough, you could even hear them.

One day, as Celegorm swung down from the canopy to meet Oromë for an afternoon ride, the Vala had revealed something wrapped in the folds of his great crimson coat: a puppy, covered in downy gray fur that stood up in every direction, with bright blue eyes and a keen little nose. 

“This is Huan,” Oromë had said, smiling as Celegorm cried out in delight. 

He had carried the puppy out of the forest nestled in the front of his shirt. The first person he had shown, unable to resist, had been Aredhel. 

For she had always been there: before Huan and even before Oromë. Everything he saw in the forest was described to her at the first possible opportunity. And when she was big enough to ride a horse, he taught her what he had learned from Oromë. When they were grown they all went hunting together: he and Curufin and Caranthir and the Ambarussa and Aredhel, while Maglor sat in the shade writing songs, and Maedhros and Fingon sparred in the courtyard. But Aredhel was the one to whom he told his fears. Aredhel had been the one who had clambered with him through the branches, delighting to hear the names of the trees. 

A squirrel appeared from out of the underbrush. It studied Celegorm for an instant, and then took a nut in its mouth and scurried away. Celegorm looked back again at the elm, and the knife he had buried in it. His eyes lit up in sudden remembrance, and he stripped off his pack, his cloak, and finally his shoes. Barefoot now, he wrapped his arms around the trunk of the tree and pressed his face against the bark, closing his eyes.

 _“Lalmë,”_ he said softly, “that is your name.”

He felt a tingling beneath his cheek, like the resonance of a harp-string, so faint he wondered if he had only imagined it.

Celegorm pushed off of the ground and hugged the tree-trunk with his knees. His bare feet did not slip against the bark. Still pressing his body against the trunk, he pushed himself upward, and thus he slowly made his way to the middle of the trunk where at last he was able to step onto the smooth handle of the knife he had embedded there. He crouched now, one foot on the knife-handle and both hands steadying himself against the tree. Then he leapt high into the air and caught the lowest sturdy branch in his outstretched hand. 

Panting in exertion, heart racing in triumph, Celegorm grabbed onto the branch with both hands and swung himself over and onto it. He now stood in the understory, surrounded by thousands of pleated yellow-green leaves, fluttering all around him as though in welcome. When he looked up, Aredhel was sitting a few branches above, watching him with a mixture of admiration and amusement. 

“How did you find me?” she asked, “I left no trace for you. Did you bring Huan?”

“I tried to track you, but couldn’t,” replied Celegorm, “and it didn’t seem fair to use Huan. But I remembered you always used to find the biggest tree in the forest and sit in the branches for hours when you wanted to be alone. It only came to me after I gave up hope of finding you otherwise.”

Aredhel nodded thoughtfully. 

“So you do remember,” she said.

Celegorm brushed the hair out of his face and patted twigs and dust off of his clothes.

“May I come closer?” he asked. 

Aredhel slid to the side on the branch she was sitting on, inviting him to take the space she vacated. Celegorm clambered from branch to branch to her side, and sat down.

“I’m sorry for what happened by the stables,” he said, “Are you hurt?”

“A little,” said Aredhel, “What do you care?”

It was an unexpected jab to the side.

“Of course I care,” he said, “I always have. Can’t we just be friends again?”

Aredhel shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself.

“If you care about me,” she said, “Then, the question is: ‘are you going to stop hurting me, Celegorm?’ Will you do again what you did to my family in Araman?”

Celegorm threw his hands up helplessly. He mouthed words but nothing came out. There had been a time once when he and Aredhel understood one another without saying anything aloud– when they could speak to each other silently, through the invisible intertwining connection between them as the trees did. How artless and clumsy was human language in comparison. Pathetically, he turned to her.

“Aredhel,” he said, “I would never hurt you on purpose–”

“Is that so?”

“If you would just listen–”

“Why come to me now if you intend to follow in your father’s footsteps? If nothing’s going to change?”

“Because I love you!” he burst out clumsily, and Aredhel fell silent.

“That’s all I can tell you,” he said, more subdued, “That’s all I can give. I swore the Oath; you know that. My fate isn’t mine, and I can’t make the promise you’re asking for.”

Aredhel was quiet for a moment. She studied her own hands, folded in her lap, considering his words. Had he ever told her before that he loved her? 

“Aredhel?”

“I worried about you, you know,” she said, “the day you abandoned us in Araman. When we saw the smoke going up on the horizon, the first thing I felt was fear for you. I wondered if you’d been hurt.”

Celegorm’s eyes were lost and beseeching.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Aredhel, I’m so sorry.”

Tears started in Aredhel’s eyes. She wiped her eyes on her shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t have cared so much. I should have been worried for my brothers and my father and my niece and our people. And instead I worried about you.”

He started to reach out for her, to hold her, but she stopped him.

“No,” she said, “don’t. Your love is not enough anymore.” 

Bitterly, Celegorm wrapped his arms around his own knees.

“What happened?” he wondered, “It was supposed to be the two of us. No one else was allowed in the worlds we made together. Now I’m no longer welcome in yours.”

He looked so miserable then that Aredhel could not help but lay her hand on his forearm, which was stiff with agitation. Gradually the tension gave way in response to her touch.

“Perhaps it’s not all your fault,” she said, “I understand that. But my world is bigger now than just the two of us. We’re all connected, Celegorm. You, and I, my brothers and your brothers, all of your past deeds, and everything you’re going to do. All part of one whole, just like this forest. _‘No creature lives that lives alone.’_ Oromë told you that. And you told me.”

Celegorm searched her eyes desperately, maddened by the fact he could not read them like he once could. He was so lonely for her, so hungry for her company even though she was sitting right next to him. He was surprised at how much there was he missed about her, from her stubbornness to her long dark hair to the way she ran her thumb over her lip whenever she was thinking hard about something. He longed for her to embrace him, to hold him even one last time and tell him he was forgiven. Then everything might be all right.

“Suppose I abandoned the oath,” he said “If I repented of all my past deeds and vowed never to take another human life. We could go back to the way things were before. And you and I could ride all across Beleriand, hunting in the forest just like we used to. Just us.”

But it was mere fantasy. He and Aredhel both knew it, though the sorrow on her face told him that she wished for the very same.

“You will not be able to escape the oath that easily,” she said, “and I don’t want you to do it for me. I can’t be the reason you condemn yourself to the everlasting dark. Because–” she paused once more, blinking quickly, “–because I still feel something, Celegorm. In spite of everything. Try as I might, I can’t seem to forget.”

He reached out for her again, and this time, she gave in, as he knew she would. She pressed her face into his chest and put her arms around him. Celegorm returned her embrace, cherishing it though he knew it meant farewell. They remained this way as long as they dared, and Celegorm stroked her hair, lulling her in a whisper as she cried for the boy she had lost. 

When Curufin walked into Maedhros’s room, he found his brother sitting at the edge of his bed, panting, his good arm braced at his side. He had been attempting once more to push himself to a standing position. When he saw Curufin, he stopped and sank back. The brothers briefly embraced, and then Curufin sat down in the chair across from Maedhros.

“We all came by before,” explained Curufin, “but you were sleeping.”

“I had just been out in the courtyard with Fingon,” said Maedhros, smiling, “The smallest thing tires me out these days. Where are the others?”

Curufin listed off their remaining brothers on his fingers.

“Maglor’s in the kitchens with the servants, getting supper ready. Caranthir and Fingon just got back from hunting for the supper, and they’re washing up now. Celegorm and Aredhel are getting more firewood. Who else? Oh yes; the Ambarussa, well, I never know what they’re doing, but they’re sure to show up when the situation calls for it.”

“Aredhel’s here?”

“Yes; she and Turgon both. I ran into him in the bathhouse. Idril, too. Oh, and we’re having supper with all of them, it’s been decided.”

“Interesting,” said Maedhros.

“Anyway, I was sent to get you ready,” said Curufin, “and to see if there’s anything special you wanted to drink. We brought some wine over from the camp.”

Maedhros rubbed his bandaged right wrist idiosyncratically.

“Actually, Curufin,” he said, “I don’t know if I’ll be joining tonight. I’m sorry. It’s just that I still can’t be around a lot of people for a very long time, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

Curufin hid his disappointment as best he could.

“I’m sure Fingon will bring you something,” he said. Then he laid his hand on Maedhros’s arm and looked in his eyes. “He takes care of you, doesn’t he, brother?”

“Yes, Curufin,” said Maedhros, smiling, “he really does. But I’m glad you’re here too.”

His brow darkened in sudden frustration. 

“There are things Fingon just doesn’t understand,” he went on, “and sometimes I wish he wouldn’t try to.”

“Maedhros?”

But his brother only waved his hand to dismiss the thought. 

“Never mind,” he said, but Curufin grabbed his wrist.

“What is it Fingon doesn’t understand?” he demanded, “Tell me, if you won’t tell him.”

Maedhros tried to pull his hand away, but he was too weak.

“Let go,” he snapped, “It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing.”

“Leave me alone, _Atarinkë,_ Little Father.”

“You know I hate being called that.”

“I don’t deserve Fingon’s friendship, all right?” yelled Maedhros, angry now, “Not after what I did to him at Losgar. And I want him to stop thinking that he can save me.”

Curufin stood up and took his brother by the shoulders.

“Maedhros,” said Curufin, “you had nothing to do with what happened at Losgar.”

“I stood by and did nothing,” said Maedhros furiously, “I could have stopped it.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” said Curufin.

“What do you mean? If I had awoken sooner– if I had gotten to _Ada_ –”

“You couldn’t have,” insisted Curufin again, “because I didn’t want you to.”

Maedhros was silenced momentarily by these words. His brow furrowed as he tried to recall the events of the fateful day, and try to fit together what he thought he knew with what Curufin was telling him now. 

“You didn’t–”

“When it came time to burn the ships,” said Curufin, “ _Ada_ woke me up first. He told me to fetch the rest of you. I came to you last. When I reached your tent, I threw a horse blanket over it so you wouldn’t hear or see. At least, not until it was too late.”

“But,” said Maedhros, perplexed, “why?”

“Because I wanted you to have no part in it!” cried Curufin, “I knew how close you and Fingon were. I knew you’d never forgive yourself. That annoying conscience of yours has been driving you mad ever since we took the oath. And so–” he waved his hand, “there you have it. You are blameless. Guiltless. You no longer need to believe yourself unworthy of Fingon’s friendship. The blame for that act lies with me.”

Maedhros’s mouth hung slightly open. 

“You despise me now too, don’t you?” said Curufin, breaking away from Maedhros and beginning to pace, “You’re not the only one. You should have seen the way Turgon looked at me in the bath. But do you know what he said to me, brother? He said what _Ada_ did to us– in leading us to do those things– that it was a horrible thing to do to his own children. That he hurt us, just like we hurt the Teleri. And he’s right. I will be the one to live with that now that he’s gone. Me, no one else.”

But in that moment, Maedhros felt only compassion and pity for his younger brother, and shame for himself for allowing him to bear the guilt that he had thought was his alone. 

“Curufin,” he said, “you shouldn’t have tried to protect me. I’m the eldest. I’m supposed to look after you and the others. As I will from now on. I wish you had told me before, the burden you were trying to bear on your own. We’re together in all of this. And I don’t despise you, I love you, brother. Even more now than I ever did before.”

Curufin stopped pacing. He came over and sat next to Maedhros on the bed, and buried his face in Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros put his arm around him, as he used to do when they were children, every time Curufin had run to him crying. Their father had always been much harsher with Curufin than with the rest of them. 

Everyone had always assumed that because Curufin was the favorite, Fëanor had treated him with special indulgence and kindness. While this was true in the extreme at times, most of the time Curufin spent with Fëanor, he was being told everything he had done wrong. _Stand straighter, Curufin. Don’t stutter, Curufin. Another hour at the forge, Curufin, before you play with your brothers. Recite another scroll, Curufin, before you think of going outside.”_

“It’s because he loves you,” Maedhros had told the whimpering boy time and time again, “It’s because you alone, out of all of us, have the potential for _Ada’s_ greatness.”

But Maedhros realized now he’d been wrong. It wasn’t out of love for his son that Fëanor had tried so hard to mold little Curufin into his own image– it had been out of pride. He had been grooming a vessel for his own spirit, a double who was to inherit his ambitions if harm ever befell his own body. And now Curufin had to pay the price. 

“Curufin,” Maedhros said, pulling his brother in close, “you’re so much more than what _Ada_ wanted you to be. So much better than _Ada_ ever was. And you aren’t alone.”

He glanced over to the doorway, the threshold over which Fingon had carried him hours before. _I would carry you every day until oblivion_ , Fingon had said without a trace of hesitation. 

“None of us are alone,” he whispered, and kissed the top of Curufin’s head.

The sky had darkened by the time they all made their way to the dining hall for supper. A fire was crackling in the hearth. Tall wooden chairs were arranged around a rectangular sandstone table. In its center, a side of roasted venison, deeply browned and steaming, rested on a bed of sweet potatoes. There was a basket of raw wild greens, and a pile of soft strips of unleavened bread. As they took their seats, the Ambarussa poured the wine. 

When at last everyone was settled in with a full plate, Curufin stood with his silver chalice in hand. The dining hall went quiet.

“To the house of Fingolfin,” he said, and raised his glass, “and for the rescue and safe return of our brother.”

Fingon picked up his own chalice and was about to stand, but a scraping of the chair to his right told him Turgon had been quicker than he.

“To the house of Fëanor,” said Turgon, and he, too, stood and raised his cup, “for remembrance of our ancient friendship.”

As Fingon stood, so did Maglor, and little Idril, standing up on her chair. Then Aredhel and Celegorm, the Ambarussa, and finally Caranthir. And they drank.

Afterward, they quickly tucked into supper. Maglor ate delicately, pausing often to dab at his mouth with a napkin. Curufin was equally refined, though stiffer and more regal. He raised his eyebrows somewhat disapprovingly of Celegorm, who was chewing with the left side of his mouth and speaking with the right. Amrod and Amras took unapologetically bites off of each other’s plates. Caranthir, brooding, picked at his venison without eating anything.

Turgon nudged Fingon’s side. Fingon looked. Aredhel was instructing Idril with extreme purpose on how to use her cutlery. She paused to load Idril’s plate with more vegetables, and caught Fingon’s eye, grinning.

“I think Idril might be all right, after all,” Turgon mused, and happily ate some venison.

Fingon put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Turgon stopped eating and looked around at him questioningly.

“I wanted to thank you,” said Fingon, “and to apologize.”

Turgon sat back in his chair, holding his chalice of wine in one hand.

“What for?” he asked.

“I never sought your blessing for the reconciliation with the House of Fëanor. You’re the one who lost the most because of what they did in Araman. You and Idril. I was so preoccupied with my own friendship with Maedhros that I didn’t ask how you felt, even though I knew. I didn’t want to hurt you more. But perhaps, also, I didn’t want to hear your answer.”

His brother swirled the wine in the chalice and stared into it. 

“Of course I would have given my blessing,” he said, “I’ll always trust what you think is right. You know that.”

“Yes,” said Fingon, “I know. But I shouldn’t have taken that trust for granted. Ever since I left for Thangorodrim, I haven’t had a chance to show you, Aredhel and Idril that I love you too. You’ve helped me to go a long way in mending the rift between our family and the Fëanorians, and I know it hasn’t been easy for you. And now I want you to take care of your daughter, and yourself, and leave Maedhros and his brothers to me.”

Turgon’s smile was tinged with sadness.

“Thank you,” he said, “I had wanted to hear you say that, even if I didn’t know it. Elenwë was, well, she was–”

He swallowed and blinked back tears.

“She was more to me than I can say. I needed her to live. I still do.”

Fingon’s throat tightened, as the magnitude of his brother’s love, and of his loss, dawned on him once more. How could he have forgotten? The ring on his brother’s finger had always been an object of mystery to him. He would never know what it was like to love someone so completely, to promise eternity to that person, and then to lose her. He struggled to find the right words to comfort Turgon, but in the end he could say only what he felt.

“I love you, my younger brother,” he said, and put his arm around him, “and my heart is breaking for you. I only wish I could take your pain away.”

Turgon leaned against him gratefully. 

“And you, too, my elder brother,” he replied. And Fingon knew all was well between them.

After his conversation with Turgon, Fingon excused himself and slipped away with a tray of food for Maedhros. 

“Thank you,” said Maedhros, sitting up in bed and setting the tray on his lap. The moon had risen. Fingon smiled and handed him a fork. Maedhros took it and stabbed awkwardly at a quarter of the sweet potato with his left hand. It slid from under his fork and flew across his plate. He mock-glared at Fingon.

“You could help,” he said, and Fingon laughed.

“You’re going to have to learn to fight again with your left hand,” he pointed out, “so you'll have to learn to eat with it first.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes and indicated the venison with his fork.

“You could at least cut up my meat for me,” he groused. But Fingon was ready for this. He handed Maedhros a pair of bronze scissors. 

“I thought of that,” he said smugly, “What are you going to do when I’m not around? I won’t always be there to cut up your meat for you, you know.”

Maedhros considered the tool that Fingon held out to them.

“Sensible,” he agreed, setting the fork down and taking the scissors. Fingon sat down in the chair across from Maedhros. The two of them talked as Maedhros ate. He finished half of the potatoes, and almost all of the venison. He even had a few sips of wine. Then he set down his cutlery and put his tray aside.

“Fingon, there’s something I've been meaning to tell you,” he began, “but I just didn’t know how.”


	8. Y.S. 472 - The Gambit

_As the sun rises again, we finally overtake the first of the Orcs marching toward Hithlum. Straining my elven-sight, I make out an army of at least twenty thousand, mounted on wolfback, through the dust clouds. Their ugly heads turn. They form ranks to meet us. We bear down on them, swords drawn, and sound our trumpets all across the plain, signaling the start of our plan. Maglor is beside me, and my youngest brothers are further afield, drawing closer._

_As one, our three divisions veer sharply to the right, straight past the Orcs waiting with their maces drawn. They swing at us, but are unable to catch the flanks of the cantering horses. Like the river Gelion splitting into two tributaries, our army of thirty thousand parts smoothly around the Orc horde._

_The Orcs have realized they can’t hope to match our speed for direct combat, and scramble for crossbows. In response, our soldiers ready their shields aloft. The sun shines directly into the eyes of our enemies, from where it rises at our backs, and from the reflections of the polished shields. The arrows that reach us are in disarray, aimed seemingly at random. Most are easily avoided, or else glance harmlessly off of the raised shields. But one black arrow manages to sink deeply into the hindquarters of Maglor’s horse. The loyal creature lows in pain and surprise, but gallops on._

_We sound our trumpets again, three short blasts: “where are you?”_

_From the south, the other Fëanorian trumpets are the first to reply; then comes the bellow of the powerful bronze Dwarven horns. Judging by the position of the signals, they’re just keeping pace with us on the other side of the hoard, or even slightly ahead._

_From our rear, Ulfang and Bór answer our call. The horns of the Men are a little lower than ours in pitch, but the sound distorts, like a reflection in a warped piece of metal._

_I dig my heels into the sides of my gray, who is already cantering hard, begging him to give any speed he has remaining._

_“Keep up the pace!” I shout to the men, and one by one, each horse arches his neck, flares his great nostrils, and surges forward in a full gallop._

_The Orcs are surrounded on three sides now, and have realized the significance of our formation. They’ve raised their rectangular iron shields to create a phalanx of their own, from which their ugly lances protrude, hooked at the tips. The wolves raise their hackles, growling and snapping. The arrows are still flying toward us, but their aim is deadlier now that they can see us. Just behind me, a man is struck straight on his breastplate, and while his armor is intact, he is knocked off balance, and his horse stumbles. The riders around him leap aside in alarm._

_We sound the trumpets again. Fëanorian trumpets and Dwarven horns straight across from us. Ulfang and Bór, more distant now, taking up the rear. The time has come to strike._

_We sound a single long trumpet blast. Halt._

_A clamor of metal as our shields form a wall between us and the waiting Orcs.The sun rises steadily overhead, decreasing our advantage by the minute. The Orcs are a hundred yards away, perhaps a little less._

_“Ready your longbows!" I scream to the men. Behind me, the air tightens as five thousand Elven-arrows are notched. The Orcs are still shooting at us, desperate now. A savage triumph seizes my heart. Defeat is already written on the faces of the enemy._

Hold on, Fingon, _I plead silently into the windless sky,_ just a little while longer. 

_Your blue-and-silver banners surely lie just on the other side of the plain. If the Orcs here retreat, we will be at your side within the hour._

_“Kill the archers!” I cry, and our first volley is loosed, and the sky darkens with the thousands of arrows that fly from our ranks, arcing mercilessly toward the center of the Orc-horde from all sides. The Orcs fall where they stand, their bodies piling up in the paths of their comrades._

_Our archers, heartened, notch their arrows again, and loose volley after volley into the the enfenced horde. The enemy commanders bellow orders of their own. The Orcs form ranks again, stumbling over the dead._

_“Sound the trumpets!” I cry out, “They are ours!”_

_Again, our trumpets sound thrice, but this time, two short blasts are followed by one long, exultant note._

_Charge._

_The horses spin on their heels, squealing, and then thunder toward the Orcs. The iron shields, curved lances, and snarling mounts of the enemies draw closer. The Orcs whip their wolves, and in a blind fury the animals barrel toward us, snarling. Three of the riders hurtle straight toward me._

_My mind goes oddly blank now, as it often does just before the enemy is at hand. My heartbeat slows. The din around me grows quiet. My left arm, my sword-arm, draws back…._

_I knock aside the first Orc’s shield with my own and plunge my sword straight into his unguarded flank. It’s not a killing blow, but knocks him off his mount and to the ground, where he will die of internal hemorrhage. I wheel to face the second attacker who is about to strike from behind. He is able to parry two of my blows, but not the third, which neatly beheads him._

_The third Orc now takes aim at my unguarded right flank. I dodge the first blow, but the second I am forced to block awkwardly with the metal arm, and the third strikes me square in the ribs and knocks the air out of my chest. A squeezing pain seizes the place he hit me._

_The orc grins savagely, believing that he has me. But to his detriment he has forgotten, like most of my challengers, that I fight left-handed. He experiences an instant of confusion as he realizes his usual attacks must be mirrored to counter mine. In that moment of hesitation, I swing upward, striking his wrist, and his weapon flies out of his grasp. He flounders, defenseless, and my sword skewers his heart._

_I glance down at where I’ve been wounded. My breastplate is dented there and every breath feels like a kick in my ribs, but so far, nothing’s bleeding._

_The Orcs are retreating headlong now, abandoning their wounded, falling back frantically through the opening we’ve left them to the west. We give eager chase, culling their numbers as they flee. The two great streams of our forces rejoin, and I make out the forms of Curufin, Caranthir, and Celegorm riding ahead of the throng, and the squarish forms of the Dwarves in tow, on the backs of their stout donkeys._

_Satisfied, I look westward again– and my spirit leaps in joy. For on the horizon are your blue and silver banners– far more of them than I had hoped. And as we sound our horns in greeting, the familiar lilt of your silver trumpets arises in reply, but this is accompanied by a new sound, a new voice altogether. And interwoven into the quilt of banners across the battlefield are emblems of swans’-wings. I don’t believe it–– after four hundred years of concealment, Turgon has brought his armies out of Gondolin, ten thousand strong._

_Again we sound our trumpets in ecstatic greeting, and again your friendly horns sing out in reply, closer now than ever. Together we will drive the Orcs back to Angband. We’ll beat down the metal doors and storm the black throne; we’ll find my father’s Silmarils and the Oath will be fulfilled at last. My heart is throbbing, the promise of freedom now so near._

_Curufin pulls his steed alongside mine and squeezes my shoulder._

_“Look, Maedhros!”_

_I look. And there you are._

_You are surrounded by the Orcs who haven’t joined the disorganized retreat. You are throwing them from your path, shouting orders at your men, and they pull out of the quagmire and rally around you, ready to follow you to certain death. You are gleaming in your silver armor. You are swift and powerful, a brilliant star walking the earth. Now Turgon appears at your side, and many others whose stories I will not learn until years later from the children of Eärendil: Maeglin son of Aredhel; Glorfindel and Ecthelion; Húrin and Huor._

_And then you break away from the fighting and look to the east, at our armies streaming over the plain toward you, and finally, your gaze finds me._

_A cool wind arises in the north. You raise your gleaming sword to the sky, and you shout something I’m still too far away to hear, but surely must be my name. Tears of joy stream from my burning eyes, for you and I will take back the world, together._

_Yet…_

_And even years later, my heart stings as I write the word “yet”: a word that signifies a turning of tides, an abrupt twist in a path we thought was destined for victory. For, how I longed to write another word instead, perhaps “and then…” followed by a glorious account of Morgoth brought to his knees, his people scattered across Arda, the thralls freed, and the Doom of the Noldor forestalled for years hence. Alas, as you may know, it is not our fate for the chronicle to proceed with “and then,” but rather, with:_

_Yet._

_Yet in spite of our valor, in spite of our carefully made alliances and plans, all falls to ruin in an instant. For, as you shout my name and urge your hosts toward me, the ground shakes, and an immense shadow spreads over Anfauglith, plunging all of our hopes into darkness._

_Out of the gates of Angband surges a fresh wave of enemies, a deluge of wolves, and wolfriders, and balrogs, and dragons. Towering above them all is Glaurung the Golden, the behemoth you chastened in his youth now full-grown, armored from snout to tail in scales like iron plates. He rears and spreads his wings across the sky, and the shadows ripple over Anfauglith. Then he arches his long, serpent neck and opens his jaws._

_Fire erupts from the dragon’s mouth and roars across the plain. Your banners disappear from my sight as our armies are swept apart by the blast. The ranks of the Orcs, previously retreating, swell with the arrival of the newcomers, and turn on us._

_At that moment, as we turn tail and try to pull away, there’s a great commotion on the far side of our armies. The pale Men are charging into the ranks of the Elves, weapons drawn._

_At first, I think there’s been a mistake, a breakdown in communications with the arrival of the beasts of Angband. But no: the distorted sound of their horns rises up through the smoke, followed by the clash of arms. They were waiting all this time to be sure Morgoth would be victorious before they decided to strike._

_We’ve been betrayed._

_There’s a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach as the thought comes to me, and impotent fury. We are now surrounded on three sides. The irony of it aches even now._

_Once more we sound the horns, a series of short blasts: come to me!_

_My eyes water in the blistering heat as I scan the battlefield to see who will emerge from the tumult. The wound on my right side begins to throb anew. Maglor and Curufin pull their scattered forces toward us. The two of them are bruised and bloodied but otherwise unhurt. The Ambarussa appear together, Amrod bleeding heavily from his left leg. The Dwarves appear next. And finally Caranthir arrives, with Celegorm slumped in the saddle in front of him. Fear consumes every other emotion inside me._

_“What’s happened to him?”_

_“A blow to the back, and a fall from his slain horse,” Caranthir answers gravely._

_I am now frantic to lead my brothers out of this alive._


	9. Thangorodrim Again

By starlight, Fingon carried Maedhros once more down the walkway and into the courtyard. Above them stretched the infinitude of the heavens, purple-dark and glittering. Fingon set his friend down on the stone bench under the tree and sat down beside him. The frogs were singing in the forest just beyond. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the elm, which in the night towered above them, a shadowy giant. The two of them remained thus in one another’s company for a while, bearing witness to the world beyond elves.

Fingon did not press him, and Maedhros was grateful. In fact, to see Fingon thus, leaning back into the bench with his arms outstretched on either side, his face tilted toward the sky, he might have appeared as though he were simply enjoying an evening with a friend, in no special hurry to resolve anything unfinished, or hear words so long left unsaid. 

And Maedhros wondered whether somehow Fingon, in his own wisdom, already knew what he was about to say.

“I owe you a great debt,” Maedhros finally said, for he didn’t know how else to begin, “one that I don’t think will ever be repaid.”

His friend only watched him with serene, compassionate eyes, gently inviting him to continue, or not, as he pleased.

“And at first–” Maedhros paused to wind his disarrayed thoughts into sentences, “and at first I just didn’t want to burden you any more.”

“You are not a burden to me,” said Fingon, as he had so many times before.

“I know,” said Maedhros, “I know. I believe that. And yet–”

Still, he could not find the words he wanted to stay. They fled from him just when he needed them the most, just when he wanted only to be understood.

“Do you remember, Fingon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “the day you came to rescue me?”

The starlight reflected in Fingon’s eyes, dark and deep under the night sky.

“I remember,” said Fingon softly.

Falteringly, he reached out and took Fingon’s hand. 

“Close your eyes,” he said, “I want you to return with me. I want you to recall that hour in your mind’s eye, just for a moment.”

Fingon surveyed Maedhros’s face but did not question the request. He held Maedhros’s hand, his fingers steady and gentle, and closed his eyes, concentrating. 

After a time, he said, “I am there.”

He saw a landscape of barren, twisted earth; he heard the muffled roar from deep within the mountain. A sheer rock face rose before him, the top shrouded in the black smoke that permanently obscured the sky. There, high up on the face of the rock, he found what he had been looking for. But it was far out of his grasp, and the sight so horrible that when he saw it he shuddered, he wept, he pounded the wall with his bare hands, groaning in rage and sorrow…

“What do you see?” asked Maedhros.

Fingon’s fingers tightened around his friend’s hand. He was grimacing. The place in his mind’s eye was far more real to him than the present.

“From far below you, on the slopes of Thangorodrim I see you suffering. I cry out your name. I search desperately for a way to reach you, but there is none.”

He heard his own voice in his head as he cried out through the dust that day.

_Maedhros! Maedhros, I’m here!_

_Fingon, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me–_

_I’m trying, Maedhros, it’s too high–_

_No! No! Don’t leave me here alone!_

“I think the unimaginable,” said Fingon, “just as you put it into words. You beg me to put an arrow through your heart. And so I notch the arrow and pull back the bowstring. I pray to Manwë for your life to end swiftly.”

Tears began to course down’s Fingon’s face. It was painful, what Maedhros was asking him to remember, and Maedhros hated making him live it again. But it had to be done; the story had to be told if Fingon was to understand, and he knew that Fingon would want to.

“I prayed for the same,” whispered Maedhros, “I prayed for death. Not just because of the torment Morgoth put me through, but because of all the wrongs I’d done. All of the hurt I caused. I knew then that I was beyond hope. And I welcomed oblivion.”

Fingon opened his eyes. A sad understanding dawned on his face.

“When I awoke,” Maedhros said, “I wasn’t in the Halls of Waiting, which is where I expected to be if anywhere at all. Instead, I was lying in a tent, freezing cold, my right hand gone. You were beside me, crying. ‘So,’ I thought, ‘I am meant to live.’”

“The pain in your heart,” said Fingon, realizing, “from which you begged for release; it’s stayed with you all this time. I never knew.”

“I never told you,” said Maedhros.

“And when you said you didn’t think you could be healed–”

“I don’t think I ever will be.”

Fingon looked away.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” he asked, “That you don't wish to go on?”

“No, Fingon,” said Maedhros, “What I’m trying to say is, in spite of everything, I really want to live. Though there’s a darkness inside me, always waiting, I don’t want to face it alone.”

“Maedhros…”

“I know I ran from you. I know I shut out your love and care. I’m sorry. Please, Fingon, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but if you could just give me another chance–”

Fingon arose, stood before Maedhros and whispered his name, his arms outstretched. Without another word, Maedhros came into them. 

“I will never leave you alone,” said Fingon.

“I’ve never done anything to deserve your friendship,” said Maedhros, “I don’t deserve to be loved like this. You know that.”

“That’s not true.” He ran his hand over Maedhros’s cheek and smoothed aside a messy lock of red hair, “Look at me.”

Maedhros hesitantly returned his gaze, only to see Fingon’s eyes shining with love. 

“The only thing I know is that I want you to be well. I want you to be happy. No, not merely to endure the pain, but to be happy at times in spite of it. Of course you deserve my love. I’ve been sure of that from the start. I was only afraid you might not accept it.”

Maedhros started to pull away. In his mind’s eye, the waves were once more turning crimson on the beach of Alqualondë. The wounded Teleri were crawling in the sand, moaning. If he could only go back… if he could only try once more to be good. 

“I hurt so many people,” he said. 

Fingon now drew back and sat down once more beside him.

“Yes,” said Fingon, “but the past is past. You must accept that. If you want to be good now– if you want to help me heal this world– then you must learn to live again.”

Maedhros slowly nodded.

“I did terrible things,” he said, “things I’ll be sorry for forever. But I, too, was hurt by my father. All of us were.” 

In a halting voice, he went on, “And I had to suffer because of it. I see now that my suffering was connected to theirs. And that my despair cannot help them. But even so...”

His voice trailed off.

“Even so, it’s not easy,” Fingon finished for him, and Maedhros nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

But to his surprise, Fingon smiled, and tenderly stroked his face. 

“Maedhros,” he said, “there’s no rush. It’s going to take a long time for you to let things go, and for you to see the beauty in things again. But keep your eyes, and your heart, open. I know you’ll feel joy again someday.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes, _Maitimo_. I do,” said Fingon, and embraced him again.

Maedhros breathed the fresh springtime air and let it out, slowly, through his mouth. He felt the nighttime breeze against his back, the peace that lay in the milky starlight. He felt the ancient strength within him, the spirit of Valinor swirling alongside his own, gradually mending his body. The warmth of Fingon’s arms around him, arms he knew would always be there to carry him if he wasn’t strong enough to stand. And, as much as he dared, he allowed a sliver of joy to enter his heart, just to see what it might be like. The emotion was at once familiar and new, for it had been so long since he felt it last. It filled him with a warm, calming light, like a single candle in a dark room, and Maedhros slipped into a blissful, dreamless sleep, for once free of the visions of the past. 

Lovingly, carefully, as though handling something precious and fragile, Fingon lifted his sleeping friend, unable to bear the thought of waking him. He took a moment to look into the beautiful face, at the golden freckles he adored hiding in between scars, at the forehead smooth and peaceful as it had been before the bloodshed. And Fingon thought to himself, as he carried Maedhros back to bed, that he had never seen anything more perfect in his life. 

In the morning, Caranthir wandered a distance away from the House of Healing to a rocky ledge, overlooking a steep stretch of mountain. An immense fog lay over the treetops, moving toward him, and after a little while the landscape disappeared, and he was alone in a sea of white. 

Caranthir was used to being alone. It was the state in which he felt the most alive, the most at home. He grew quickly bored and annoyed around people and was known for being harsh, quick to anger. Even when he tried to say what he was really thinking, when he tried in the rare instance to connect with other members of his species, he never felt as though anyone really understood. Or else they reacted with astonishment and disgust.

But alone, his spirit seemed to grow at will and to encompass the emptiness of the world around him. And here it was, pure, sublime nothingness, his only true nature. For he believed in nothing. He trusted no one. He loved his brothers, but it was almost a detached kind of affection. If love was, in others, a warm glow, then in him it was simply a colder light, like the glow of the moon. It simply didn’t seem to have the same hold on him as it did other people.

He stared out into the bright abyss. Always, that emptiness called to him. Join me, it said. There is nothing, no one to hold you back. Many times he had been close to obliging, of wandering into the cold unknown, of letting the emptiness swallow him. Yet he never did. There was always something that demanded his attention. Some battle, some quest. And he would climb dutifully back into the world and do what he was asked. 

But really, what was it all for? When you stripped away the false sheen of glory, the empty promise of kinship, the ill-disguised farce of love, then what really was the point of it all? It must look absurd from great enough heights: tiny people rushing to and fro, going nowhere. It was all so meaningless. So tiresome.

“What are you looking at?”

Caranthir started, pulled suddenly from his thoughts. It was an unfamiliar voice, a child’s voice. He peered through the fog to see Idril staring back up at him, holding a wreath of carrot flowers she had made.

“I was– what are you doing here?” he said crossly, and the child shrank away from him, daunted. It was then Caranthir realized what he must look like to Idril: an angry giant with a hideous red mark across his face, shouting down at her from a towering height.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and he quickly sat on the ground so that their eyes were closer to level. Then he moved the muscles that made him smile. Idril wrinkled her nose.

“Why is your face all red?” she asked. 

Caranthir reached up unconsciously and touched his birthmark.

“I was born this way,” he said.

But Idril only giggled and asked, “Why?”

“Because–” said Caranthir, and then he stopped. He didn’t actually know why. 

“Because what?”

“Because,” said Caranthir, suddenly feeling foolish, “when I was a baby, still inside my mother, she had a great craving for cherries. One day she ate too many of them, and the juice got all over me. And that’s why I’m different from everybody else.”

Idril made a crooning noise of fascination. She reached out and touched his face with her whole hand.

“Beautiful,” she said, and for a brief moment, Caranthir felt a little glow in his heart. Idril had said the word without thinking, without trying to deceive him. Could this red mark of his really, then, be beautiful? 

Now she handed him the wreath of carrot flowers. 

“What’s this for?” he asked, gingerly accepting it. Little white petals were already fraying off of it and landing on his clothes. He brushed them off.

“It’s for you,” said Idril, “because you’re sad.”

“But I’m not sad,” said Caranthir uncomfortably.

“It’s all right,” said Idril, “I’m sad sometimes too. But not right now.”

She sat down next to him and leaned her small body against his side. She was so warm, so full of life, of the frolicking energy of her youth. Caranthir hesitated, then stroked the top of her white-blond head. 

“What are you sad about?” he asked. 

Idril shrugged, fiddling intently with the hem of his shirt.

“A lot of things,” she said, “I’m sad about Mama. And I’m sad that _Ada_ doesn’t play with me much anymore. And I’m sad that I don’t really get to see my friends.”

She tugged a fistful of grass from the ground and scattered it into the breeze.

“I’m very sorry,” said Caranthir, “I would be sad about that too.”

Idril gave a little sigh and wriggled closer to him. She looked suddenly dejected and tired. Caranthir patted her shoulder to comfort her, but she seemed not to notice. Suddenly, Caranthir looked at the wreath in his lap and had an idea.

“Look, Idril,” he said, and gestured all around them “Do you know where we’re sitting? This is the Realm of the Flowers. Home to many great princes and princesses. And you are the greatest of them all.” 

With great ceremony, he placed the wreath on her head with both hands.

“I crown you Lady Idril of the Carrot-flowers,” he proclaimed mightily. 

Idril reached up and felt the wreath on her head. Then, eyes alight, she stood up and spread her arms.

“Lords and ladies!” she cried, loud enough for everyone in the Realm of the Flowers to hear, “I’m going to build a castle big enough for everyone to live in! Hidden where the bears and the monsters can’t find it. And there will be Trees of Light, just like in Valinor!”

Caranthir knelt down before her.

“It shall be as you say, Lady Idril,” he said, “What colors should our banners be?”

“Every color!” she decreed.

“Very good, my lady,” said Caranthir, jotting down notes into an imaginary ledger, “and will there be fountains?”

Idril considered this.

“Yes,” she decided, “and everyone is allowed to play in them.”

“O great Lady Idril,” said Caranthir, “Will you show me now the castle you have built?”

“Very well, Lord Uncle Caranthir,” said Idril, nodding generously. She pranced three steps to her left. “This,” she said, “is _Ada_ ’s tower. It’s filled with every scroll in the world, so that he can read all day. And there’s a secret room, full of lilies, he can go to when he misses Mama. Lilies were her favorite. She always smelled of them.”

Idril clasped her hands and closed her eyes when she spoke of her mother, and Caranthir did the same.

“And _this_ , is the stable where all of my ponies sleep at night.”

“Remarkable!” said Caranthir, putting his hand on his brow and looking around.

“This is the armory,” Idril went on, “where the knights live.”

“The finest in the land,” said Caranthir approvingly.

“This is the ballroom, for the adults to have their boring parties.”

“As I suppose they must.”

“And this,” said Idril, finishing with a flourish, “is your house.”

“What? For me?”

“It’s the prettiest house in the land,” she explained, “Surrounded by flowers. Your bed is soft as a cloud. You have a tamed fox for a pet. But the best part is, there’s a bridge that goes straight to where I live, so that we can play together anytime we want. Until _Ada_ says it’s time to go home, that is.”

“You really mean it?”

Idril adjusted her crown and smiled at him. 

By mid-morning, Maedhros’s brothers had packed their bags and loaded them onto the waiting horses. Before they left, they all came up to his room to say goodbye. 

“We’ll be back before long,” promised Maglor, and touched his shoulder. 

“I’ll bring more wine next time,” said Celegorm. 

“Maedhros,” said Curufin quietly, “when you’re strong enough, you’re going to be crowned High King. What are you going to do?”

Maedhros sat up at the edge of his bed, facing his brothers. 

“There’s something I need to tell you all, and it may as well be now.”

His six brothers stood around him, listening. 

“I want to help heal the world,” said Maedhros, “to defend it against Morgoth. And to try and make amends to the people we wronged.”

At this Curufin looked away, but gave a small nod of acquiescence.

“First,” Maedhros went on, “the west of Angband is unguarded. And so I shall lead my people there after a time.”

“We’ll all of us have our realms in the west, then,” said Maglor, and the brothers murmured their assent.

“Secondly,” said Maedhros, “I intend to abandon the Oath of Fëanor. The time will come when its call grows too strong for us to resist, but that time is not now. I sense that our task is first to rebuild our realm, and the trust of our kindred.”

At this, his brothers were quiet. What each felt in his heart about the Oath was kept secret. But no one challenged Maedhros.

“And finally,” said Maedhros, “I don’t intend to become High King of the Noldor. That title will go to Fingolfin.”

Caranthir’s face darkened.

“Maedhros,” he said, “are you sure?”’

“It’s my final decision,” said Maedhros, “I’ve already written and sealed a letter for Fingon to bring back to his father. It’s too dangerous a power for us to possess, and besides, we don’t have the love of all the Noldor. Fingolfin will be the better man to lead us toward peace.”

Curufin bowed his head. His allegiances would forever war within him, hidden from all but himself. But this time, his regard for his older brother won out.

“We’ll stand behind you, and whatever you think is best,” he said, “we trust you.”

Then Maedhros embraced each of his brothers, and kissed each one. With that, it was time for them to go.


	10. The Coronation

A pale, jagged scar was all that remained of the wound on Maedhros’s wrist, now a smooth mound over the severed bone. Standing alone in his dressing room, Maedhros studied it with absentminded interest. Though he was largely used to it by now, at times it still seemed a strange sight.

Maglor appeared in the doorway and tapped lightly on the wood.

“It’s almost time, Maedhros,” said his brother, “Are you ready?”

“In a minute,” replied Maedhros, and Maglor moved on to shepherd the rest of their brothers. 

Ritualistically, Maedhros began to wrap a soft strip of linen around his wrist, overlapping the leaves neatly as Fingon had once done with his bandages. Over the last few months he had grown adroit at performing the task one-handed, along with most others. There were a few things he had yet to master: riding a horse, for instance, or writing on loose sheets of paper. But these, he knew, would come to him in time. Other things he would learn to do without: using a bow and arrow, or wearing his red hair long and loose over his shoulders as he used to. It was simply too much of a nuisance to keep up now.

After he had finished wrapping his wrist in the cloth, he slid the metal prosthetic over it. Curufin had fashioned this for him. From the outside, it resembled a perfect bronze sculpture of an open hand in repose. He had been amazed that Curufin, who as a smith was accustomed to working the straight lines and hard edges of armor and weapons, had conceived of and produced a form as natural as this. He had even damasked it with patterns of stars in graceful, swirling lines. There was no practical reason to do this, of course. But that was what Maedhros loved about his younger brother: even when he thought Curufin couldn’t possibly be thinking of ways to take care of him, he was. And he showed this only in his own quiet ways.

Maedhros slipped out into the corridor glanced at his reflection in one of the ceremonial suits of armor standing guard in two straight lines on either side of the hallway. Today, he had dressed in the colors of the House of Fëanor: a pale rose-colored surcoat over a long, crimson kirtle trimmed in gold. A simple gold diadem rested on his brow. His brothers were waiting for him, all similarly dressed. He adjusted his sleeves and walked quickly over to join them. 

The doors to the great hall, where the coronation was to take place, were fifteen feet high, engraved with images of trees surrounding the seal of the House of Fingolfin. The entire castle had been built over just the last several months. The wood still smelled new, and the wall hangings, blue-and-silver in the colors of the House of Fingolfin, remained bright and clean. From just beyond the huge set of doors, he could hear the murmurs of a crowd of thousands.

The sons of Fëanor waited for the moment they were to make their entrance. In a moment, when the doors finally opened, they would walk through that enormous crowd of the hosts of the Noldor to be present as Fingolfin was crowned High King. The eyes of their people, and of Fingolfin’s, would follow them from either side. Maglor coughed nervously a few times. Celegorm kept running his fingers through his straight golden hair. Curufin studied the carved doors with a keen, discerning eye. Amras righted Amrod’s diadem. Carathir stood a little away from the others, his thoughts unreadable. All of them listened silently. 

Then, on the other side of the doors, the drums began to beat, and a chorus of horns joined in. Slowly, heavily, the doors unbolted and opened before them. The coronation hall was an enormous chamber of smooth white stone, lit by a hundred bronze torches lining the walls on either side. At its far end, high above, was a large stone balcony that overlooked the gathering, where Fingolfin and his children awaited them. Three blue-and-silver banners hung off the balustrade, the edges glinting in the torchlight. The crowd was an ocean on either side, parted by a slender blue carpet that ran the length of the hall. 

Maedhros looked back again at his brothers. Then, aware of the fluttering of his heart, straightened to his full height and stepped into the hall as the herald’s voice echoed all around the stone walls, announcing their entrance. He heard Maglor’s soft footsteps behind him crossing over the threshold and then growing muffled on the carpet.

Straight down the hall he walked, his head held high, aware of the eyes upon them. Some stared at them in curiosity, others in hate, and still others, Maedhros knew, in frank appraisal. In the past this had been a point of secret pride for him: how dark-lashed eyes always tended to move over his body when he came near, how men and women gave pause when he passed by, their eyes betraying the same admiration one might have for a purebred horse or an exquisitely made dress. 

Maedhros was aware he had become handsome once more, no less so for the white scars that now marred his painted skin. But he didn’t care now as he once had– not out of contempt or pride, but because, as his body had recovered, he had so admired its resilience, its ability to heal itself in spite of its prolonged abuses, that its physical appearance was of little concern to him.

At last, they approached the end of the hall and, still forming a single line, ascended the staircase leading up to the balcony. Fingolfin awaited them, his familiar flocked surcoat exactly matching the color of his bright blue eyes. Fingon stood to his right. As soon as he caught Maedhros’s eyes, his face lit in a smile of pure happiness, and Maedhros’s racing heart slowed. He smiled back. Turgon and Aredhel stood to Fingolfin’s left, and Idril between them, holding both of their hands. All of them wore their House colors just as the Fëanorians did.

The music stopped, but the drums beat on. With this cue, Maedhros walked across the balcony alone. A young page with brilliant gold hair bore the heavy crown upon a crimson cushion. As Maedhros approached he bowed and held it out to him.

“Thank you, Glorfindel,” Maedhros whispered, and the youth blushed deeply to be addressed by his name. 

Maedhros walked to the edge of the balustrade to address the crowd. A thousand blurred faces looked back at him expectantly, watching his every move. He could feel Fingon’s eyes on him, warm and encouraging. He took a deep breath. There could be no waver in his voice when he started to speak. 

“Lords and ladies of the Noldor,” he began, in a strong, clear voice that echoed back to him from the stone walls. The drums stopped beating at once. It was remarkable how such a vast crowd of people could in an instant become completely quiet and still. 

“When Lord Fingon and I were children in the city of Tirion,” said Maedhros, “we would often walk down to the shore and build castles of sand.”

Beside him, Fingon smiled, knowing at once what story Maedhros intended to tell.

“One day, Fingon built a wonderful sand castle, taller even than he was, which at the time, admittedly, was not saying much.”

There was a small ripple of friendly laughter throughout the crowd.

“This castle had turrets and crenellated walls and little banners made of ribbon, and even tiny crab knights patrolling along the battlements. Even my father, Lord Fëanor, praised little Fingon’s castle. And so I, consumed with the hottest envy of my few years, destroyed the marvelous thing in a fit of childish rage. When Fingon started to cry, my father rebuked me sharply, and instructed me to destroy my own castle as well, so justice could be done. But as I moved in on my own sand castle, stick in hand, Fingon ran out suddenly to block my path. 

‘If you do that,’ he said frantically, ‘we’ll both have broken castles. What good is that to anyone?’

‘Please, Lord Fëanor,’ Fingon now appealed to my father through his tears, ‘let Maedhros share his castle with me.’

With my father’s astonished approval, Fingon and I spent the afternoon on the castle I had started. When completed, it was even more wonderful than the one I had destroyed.”

The audience murmured again. Some of them had started to understand what he was trying to say, but whether they would approve of it was yet unclear.

“It wasn’t for my efforts that the new castle was built,” said Maedhros, “it was because of the wisdom and generosity of the House of Fingolfin.”

Here Maedhros glanced at Fingon. Love and pride shone from his friend’s eyes.

“Lords and ladies,” he said, “the House of Fëanor was once great. We invented letters. We perfected numerous arts. We created dazzling treasures, the likes of which the world will never see again. But our pride and our envy drove us to acts that lost the faith of our kinspeople, as well as our faith in ourselves. We came to believe that we were beyond redemption, beyond hope. Yet even in our darkest hour, our friends in the House of Fingolfin proved true and sought to mend the divide between us rather than pursue revenge. And, as you know, I now owe Lord Fingon my life.”

He held up his right arm. Torchlight glinted off of the metal hand. There was a louder murmur of the crowd, one of distinct approval for Fingon’s heroism.

“The kingdom of the Noldor has been wounded, and deeply divided, by our war against Morgoth and the actions my brothers and I took in the name of the oath we swore. We humbly ask the forgiveness of the Noldor, and we intend to help rebuild our state in any way we can. We vow to continue the defense of our new homeland from the forces of Morgoth. But in doing so we must, once again, call upon the guidance of the eldest, and not the least wise, of the House of Finwë.” 

With these words, Maedhros lifted the crown from the cushion Glorfindel held. Quiet again as the entire crowd held its breath. Maedhros slowly bore the crown over to Fingon’s father, who gave him a tiny smile as he inclined his head.

“Thank you, Maedhros,” he whispered, so that only those around them could hear, “You’ve done very well. And I am proud of you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Maedhros whispered back, and placed the crown on his uncle’s head.

“All hail Lord Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor,” he said at last, and an ecstatic roar of approval rang out through the hall. The drums resumed, and the horns began to play again. All together now, the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin descended from the balcony and made their way back through the crowd, which had come alive again. The chamber filled with the music of thousands of overlapping voices, talking amongst themselves. The hosts of the Noldor bowed their heads to Fingolfin in great waves as they passed. 

A procession on horseback would follow through the remainder of the hosts, who were no doubt already assembled outside as far as the eye could see. Fingon walked at his father’s side, and Turgon just behind him. Idril followed her aunt intently, carrying herself in the very same regal way in a remarkable imitation. She barely ever put her hand in her mouth anymore.

“How are you feeling?” Aredhel whispered down to Idril. 

The young girl tilted her head and carefully considered her aunt’s question.

“I’m happy,” she replied, “but I really wish Mama could be here too. I still miss her a lot sometimes. Even now.”

Aredhel reached down and picked Idril up. The young girl wrapped her arms around Aredhel’s neck.

“I miss your mother too,” she said, “I think she would be very proud of how very kind and grown-up you are. Soon I won’t be able to lift you up anymore.”

Idril giggled and snuggled into Aredhel’s neck. But after a little while, she suddenly said, “Put me down, Auntie.”

Aredhel obliged. At once, to her great surprise, Idril hurtled across the hallway over to Caranthir, walking behind Celegorm and before Curufin in the line of his brothers. To her even greater surprise, when Caranthir saw Idril, he stopped walking and knelt down before her in delight. She threw her arms around him. Aredhel wondered if she had ever seen Caranthir smile before as he did now, without its usual tinge of malice and bitterness. It was an odd sight.

At that moment, Celegorm looked over, and their eyes met briefly. Then Caranthir stood after bidding Idril a cheerful goodbye, and walked on. As Idril came running back to Aredhel, Celegorm turned away.

Turgon, who had happened to catch his moment, looked back at her. 

“Are you two friends again?” he asked.

Aredhel bent down, instinctively scooped up Idril’s hand, and straightened up again. Then she uncertainly ran her thumb over her lip. 

“I don’t really know,” she said, “The two of us were never like Fingon and Maedhros. I mean, our friendship was, but… he’s not like Maedhros. And I’m not like Fingon. So perhaps it’s just best to let the past be. Everything is different now.”

Her brother nodded seriously, and Aredhel knew he understood at once what she meant.

“I wish I had known to cherish the time I was happy,” he said, “and to enjoy the simpler times, before everything was worse.”

Aredhel walked over to his side and touched his arm, still holding Idril’s hand in her right. Turgon now appeared to be deep in thought about something, as he so often was these days. At times his mind seemed to be in a different world altogether.

“Turgon?”

“Aredhel,” said Turgon, “I’ve had an idea in my mind for quite some time now. An idea that will involve you.”

She raised her eyebrows questioningly and waited.

“You remember Tirion, don’t you?” he asked.

“Of course I remember Tirion,” said Aredhel.

“No, I mean… not just growing up there. But the place itself. How the whole city stood on a great green hill. How all the white terraces gleamed in the Light, and trees grew by the fountains showering the sky in crystal. How no danger ever passed through the white walls.”

Aredhel blinked. She realized now she had never paid very much attention to the city itself. Most of the time she had been too busy darting through the trees after Celegorm. 

“I suppose so,” she said, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m going to build a city like that someday,” said Turgon, “Its name will be _‘Gondolin,’_ Hidden Rock. And no one, not Morgoth nor anyone else will know where to find it. Idril will be able to grow up as a normal child again, with friends, with a home. And I want you to come with me, Aredhel.”

“Of course I’d come for Idril,” said Aredhel at once, and the little girl looked up briefly at her name.

“Thank you,” said Turgon, smiling at her ardor, “I’m sure Idril will be very glad. But it’s not just for her. You see, I need you too, sister. Though I’m loath to take you away from Fingon and all the others–”

But Aredhel interrupted him.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said firmly, “or about Fingon. You’ve always been there to support him, and me. He’ll have _Ada_ , and he’ll have Maedhros. I love you both, but you’re the one who needs me more right now. We’ll build this city, Turgon. Together.”

Turgon’s smile was so pure, so full of joy that she knew she was making the right choice.

“My heart is at peace,” he said, “I think Idril will be all right after all. Elenwë might be gone now, but my daughter will be loved. And there is strength inside her even I didn’t know.”

“In that way, she is much like her father,” said Aredhel, putting her hand on his shoulder.

With that, they had reached the entrance of the castle. As they approached, the doors opened, hauled on either side by no fewer than five attendants liveried in blue and silver. Daylight streamed in from the widening gap, and a tumult of cheers greeted them from just beyond the walls. Together, the three of them stepped out into the blinding light of the sun.

When the ceremony was long over, and the sun just setting, Maedhros and Fingon sat together atop the wall of the castle overlooking the deserted streets of Hithlum, which just hours ago had been teeming with people. They were both still dressed in their House colors, though at this point the layers of clothing felt stifling and ridiculous. 

“Will you stay in Mithrim, then?” asked Fingon, “You’ll always be welcome, you know.”

“For a time,” Maedhros replied, “but it may not be forever. There is much still to do before Beleriand is safe from Morgoth.”

“I thought you might say that,” said Fingon, “and in a way I’m glad. The world will be safer with you watching over it again.”

Maedhros smiled and shook the hair out of his face. 

“But I’m not leaving tomorrow,” he said, “Maybe not even for a few months. I’ll not go far. And I’ll come by often for your counsel.”

“I’m glad for that, too,” said Fingon. 

And the two friends, sitting side by side in the dawn of a long peacetime, were as happy as could be hoped for, for many years. They would ride long in the mountains together as they discussed the matters of the world, and how it would be repaired. They would spar in the courtyards of Hithlum as they had done in Tirion in their youth, and Maedhros’s body would recover fully, his left arm deadlier in combat than even his right had been. 

As for the shadow of pain in his heart, it would remain, though it would not consume him as he feared it would. His world became beautiful again, not because it reclaimed the Light that was lost, or because its grief was assuaged, but because Maedhros learned to see beauty again, shining out from the wreckage, even brighter for the darkness in which it lived.


	11. Y.S. 472 - Without You

_The Balrogs behind us, the traitorous Men before us, and the Orcs closing in, our only way out is to fight. I try to slow my breath, counting each beat of my heart trying clear my mind of the stormclouds of anger and fear that obscure the light of rational thought. I ignore the pain from the wound in my side. The longer we wait, the surer our doom. We must break through before we’re completely overwhelmed._

_We sound the trumpets. Charge. We leap into our attackers, hewing at the encroaching wall of Orcs like cornered beasts. For that is why it is so dangerous to attack desperate warriors: in the hour of their deaths, they will each fight with the strength of five, for the mere chance of remaining on the green earth with the ones they love._

_Slowly, painfully, we push the line of the Orcs farther eastward. I try not to look over at Celegorm, whose skin is growing paler by the second, even in the yellow light of the flames growing ever higher around us. In time, I begin to wonder why the dragon’s thundering footsteps have not overtaken us. I spare a brief glance over my shoulder, and freeze for an instant in spite of the danger: the Dwarves of Belegost, Azaghâl in the fore, have surrounded Glaurung and are miraculously keeping the dragon at bay._

_I am filled at once with awe for their impossible valor, and shame for my own instinctive mistrust of them before the battle began. How wrong I was about the Men. Another lesson, reader, from the mines of my failures: the eyes often deceive regarding the nature of strangers._

_They’ve bought us enough time to get a little further ahead. I will not dishonor them by wasting their sacrifice. Forcing my gaze forward once more, I muster all of the strength of my left arm and swing before me in a sweeping blow. Bone cracks and sinew snaps in the path of the blade. Fountains of blood spray onto my face. The Orcs are so dense now that each felled soldier causes the one behind him to stumble, and Orc after reeling Orc catches the swift arc of my sword. I even manage to bash one lumbering fellow with the hilts, knocking him sideways into an unsuspecting comrade._

_I wonder if you have ever felt the savage pleasure I felt as I killed and killed, and none of them landed more than a glancing blow on me. I wonder if you ever gloried in the pain of your enemies. You never fought for the joy of killing, though it came to you so naturally. It was one of the many contradictions I so loved about you. You only ever fought to defend what you loved, what you knew in your heart was right._

_Victory and defeat are meaningless to me now. The bitter thought comes to me as Orc after Orc likes cloven in my path. I don’t care if Morgoth takes Hithlum or Dorthonion or Himring. I don’t care if every Elven stronghold in Arda is brought low. All I ask is for Manwë to return you to me alive and well. In an instant of despair I even wonder how many of my own men I’d be willing to trade for your life. A hundred? A thousand? What about my own brothers?_

_The thought sickens me. I’ve not changed a bit. Deep down I’m still the depraved coward who slaughtered the Teleri to get what we wanted. If you want to know to what depths a man will sink, simply threaten to take away the thing he most loves._

_But if Manwë has heard my prayers, then he has also heard the vile thoughts that have accompanied them. And he will not spare your life as he spared mine when you so eloquently pleaded for it long ago. Instead, he will hear the evil that taints even the noblest of my deeds. The corruption of my soul that always lies in waiting. He will hear it, and he will take you away._

_“Why?” I will scream aloud to the grim-countenanced Vala, years after you’re gone, “Why him? Why him? Why not me?”_

_But no word nor sign will Manwë ever send back to me, and my own torment shall be answer enough. And as you’ll never be able to tell the story of your last hours, I will try to piece together what I know, though what comes of it may merely be a distorted reflection of what came to pass, in the shards of my broken heart._

_They isolate you with the last of your guard. One by one, those closest to you fall at your feet. Even as every consecutive breath grows more difficult, you weep for their loyalty._

_You almost drowned once when you were a boy. You struggled under the lake’s surface for a full minute before your father rescued you, but with every second your hunger for air grew more maddening, and at last you could breathe in no more. And safely back on shore, when you had emptied the water from your lungs, you began to gasp for air. You had never tasted anything sweeter in your life. Your little chest heaved, soaking wet, in and out, breathing, breathing, breathing as though you would never fill your chest with enough. Almost as if you knew, even then, that your last few moments would be just like those: gasping for air, but starving for it._

_The monster called Gothmog is laughing. In the blurring edges of your vision, a fiery whip snakes through the smoke. You close your eyes. You hope it is quick. You hope there’s not a mangled body for your brother to find. But fate is cruel to you this day as it is to all of us. For after you are dead, Gothmog butchers your beautiful body. With a blow of his axe, he robs the world of your lovely, kind face. And then they beat you into the dust with their maces. They stamp your blue-and-silver banner into the mire of your blood._

_But you’re long gone by now. Your last memory is but a flash of white-hot, cleansing fire. You can’t hear the ring of the mace as it caves in your breastplate. Instead, you hear music, and you know that the Ainur are all around you, shepherding you now to the last safe place._

_“Show them to me,” you plead, “I don’t care what grief it will bring. I want to see them.”_

_And so they show you._

_From above, you see Angfaulith awash in a sea of flame. You see your guard slain around you. Azaghâl, the Dwarf-Lord of Belegost, driving a knife into Glaurung’s belly with the last of his strength; the dragon bellowing in pain, fleeing back to Angband. Turgon’s armies fighting alongside your own, falling back in a tide of Orcs. Huor and Húrin, the Men who stayed true, fending off the hordes so your brother can retreat with the remains of your armies through the Pass of Sirion._

_And then, I know in my soul, you see me._

_You watch me escape the field at last with my brothers. You watch me look into the heavens like I can sense you there. And though I cannot make out anything on the battlefield, I realize with absolute certainty what has happened, even as I fight that truth with everything I have, trying not to believe it._

_I hear your voice as if it’s in my ear:_ “Take your time, my dear Maedhros, but come back to me someday.”

_My soul, like yours, seems to exit my body. We camp in the shadow of the Ered Luin. We tend to the wounded. And later, alone in a makeshift tent, I scream into a folded blanket, I claw at my skin, I tear at my hair, I shudder and I cry without end._

_To say we were defeated in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad would be laughable. We were shattered, ruined, decimated. Within the span of six days, the realms of the Noldor in Hithlum and East Beleriand were no more. Morgoth then consummated his victory with barbaric delight. What remained of your people were captured and enslaved, and the vestiges of your realm became a prison to the Easterlings who betrayed me. For he never intended to reward them as he had promised._

_A year later, he laid waste to the Havens to the west, in pursuit of those who had fled there. Doriath, the kingdom of the Sindar, still stands. Nargothrond and Gondolin remain hidden. But the Orcs roam freely over the northern plains, while we wander the woods, a people without a homeland or direction. In the void of our purpose, the coils of the Oath tighten around us all._

_And as for me– do I care what comes of all this? Do I care if I survive? Everything I see only returns my thoughts to you. Only when I’m alone with your memory do I feel as though I’m truly alive. Thus I awaken in autumn, when the colors of the mountains bring most clearly to my mind’s eye a boy flitting through the gardens of Tirion, the gold ribbons in his hair shimmering like the gold in the trees. I remember the time when I was young and whole, when the scent of the wind and the blooming of Telperion was enough to set my soul on fire. Sometimes I hear your laughter echoing through the branches turning bare, unable to believe you’re really gone. I hear you calling my name. Sometimes I answer._

_I suppose I should be grateful for the four hundred years of friendship we had after I first heard your song rising through the smoke of Thangorodrim, when you braved my freezing wilderness and brought me back home. These were the years when I was healed, when you taught me to look for what was fair in a darkened world, and with you beside me I always found it. I loved you when we were boys, but loved you all over again for our grief that is mingled._

_With the doors shut, the curtains drawn, the world fades away, and ever my father’s Silmarils call to me, and remind me of the Oath that can’t be broken. And little by little my soul erodes, and I long to give in. I owe nothing to the world that gave you to me and then took you away. No one else will ever rob me of what is mine by right. I will recover the jewels my father made. With them, we will shape the world as we see fit. And if there are those who stand in our way then let them taste our wrath. Let them feel even a fraction of the pain that I feel._

_If you were here you would turn your face away in pity. You would tell me there was hope for me yet, that I could still live as I did when you were still around if I carried your breath in my lungs, your heart in my heart, and looked once more for the hidden light. For everywhere that disaster has followed me, so too has love. And at once I am furious that you are not here to guide me; furious with you for being gone._

_Forsake the Silmarils and my fate is sealed: everlasting darkness. I will never come back to you, though you shall wait forever, until the light of Arien has faded, and all the realms of the earth crumble into the grey and lifeless sea. Heed the oath and recover the Silmarils, and I become a thing you could never love; a monster that would horrify you._

_“Help me,” I cry, “I don’t know how to do this; I don’t know how to be alive without you.”_

_There’s never any peace inside me. When every home I’ve ever known is now closed to me, where do I find refuge?_

_Alone, I unfurl my sleeping-roll on the grass and lay supine, staring up into the stars, into the inscrutable depths of eternity. There, at last, I fall asleep, comforted if only briefly by the onset of oblivion._


End file.
